


Game, Set, Perfect Match

by catalinaandcumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Exchangelock AU Exchange 2014, Gift Fic, M/M, sports AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catalinaandcumberbatch/pseuds/catalinaandcumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When professional tennis player John Watson is taken out of the game with a shoulder injury, he consults tennis expert Sherlock Holmes to help him recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Notes About Tennis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UrbanHymnal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/gifts).



Hello, dear readers.

This sports AU has quite a bit of tennis talk. Something you might want to note now is that I have never played tennis before (besides maybe in 5th grade gym class). So I did a lot of research to write this. I'm not going to be the best at explaining the rules - and to any actual tennis players, I'm sorry if I do a crap job trying. But I tried to make use of the terms and sound like I somewhat know what I'm talking about, so if you know little about tennis like I did, this is for you! If you do, go ahead and skip to the next chapter. :)

Still with me? Here are just a few things you should know: 

1\. Probably obvious, but I'll include it - courts look like this:

There are a few different surfaces, though - the most popular are grass, clay, and hardcourt (concrete, acrylic, etc.), or carpet for an indoor court.

There are different sidelines depending on if you're playing singles or doubles. In this fic, we only deal with singles players, so their sideline is the inner line on the left and right in the picture. 

2\. Scoring

A  **game** consists of a sequence of points with the same player serving. A game is won by the first player scoring at least four points in total, and at least two points more than the opponent. Points are called out as _love, fifteen, thirty,_ and _forty._ If both players reach forty, the score is called out as  _deuce;_  they then play for the advantage (ad-40), then the game point.The server's score is always called out first.

A **set** consists of a sequence of games played with service alternating between games, ending when the count of games won meets certain criteria. Typically, a player wins a set by winning at least six games and at least two games more than the opponent. If one player has won six games and the opponent five, an additional game is played.

A **match** consists of a sequence of sets. The outcome is determined through a best of three or five  _sets_  system. On the professional circuit, men play best-of-five-set matches at all four Grand Slam tournaments, Davis Cup, and the final of the Olympics, and best-of-three-set matches at all other tournaments.

3\. Shots

 **Serve** \- a shot to start the point.

 **Forehand** \- for a right-handed player, the forehand is a stroke that begins on the right side of the body, continues across the body as contact is made with the ball, and ends on the left side of the body.

 **Backhand** \- for right-handed players, the backhand is a stroke that begins on the left side of their body, continues across their body as contact is made with the ball, and ends on the right side of their body.

 **Lob** \- a shot sent high and deep into the opponent's court.

 **Volley** - a shot returned to the opponent mid-air, before the ball bounces.

 **Overhead** **smash** \- a hard, serve-like shot, usually used to try to end the point.

 **Drop shot** \- a soft tap to the ball, sending it just over the net before the opponent can run up to get it.

4\. Pro Tournaments:

The top tier tourneys are the Grand Slams - the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open. Next on the ATP circuit are the Masters 1000, then the Masters 500 and 250 series. The lowest tier tournament the ATP offers is the Challenger. Below that, the ITF offers the Futures Tour.

ATP = Association of Tennis Professionals; ITF = International Tennis Federation

And I believe that is basically all you need to know, at least to understand the terminology used in this fic! Shoutout to wikipedia for making it easy to understand, and hopefully easy to explain.


	2. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, enough background info - now it's story time!

“Well?”

John Watson sat at his kitchen table, chin resting on his hands, which were clenched together far too tightly to pass for relaxed. He glanced to his left where his agent, Mike Stamford, was leaning over the cell phone on the table in front of them, as if getting close enough would make the news come faster.

“I’m sorry, John,” Dr Hooper said from the other end of the call. “It looks like the tendonitis in your rotator cuff is back.”

John sighed. It wasn’t the first time in his career as a professional tennis player that he’s had to deal with injury – this one in particular. Experience didn’t make it any less irritating, though. “I thought so, given that I could barely raise my right arm in Australia. How bad?”

“Could be better, but it also could be worse. It’s the third time you’ve had it, so it’s going to take you a bit longer to recover than it has in the past. However, x-ray results show you’re negative for calcium deposit in your tendons, so that’s good,” she added. “It’s unlikely you’ll need surgery, unless the problem persists.”

“What kind of time frame are we looking at in terms of recovery, Doctor?” Mike asked.

Dr Hooper sighed. “I’m afraid it could take three to six months to get you back to top shape.”

“What?!” John wondered if she’d misspoken. It had never taken anywhere near that long to recover from this in the past.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I know it’s significantly longer than last time, but with these chronic cases…”

“We understand,” Mike jumped in. “What do you suggest? Any way we could speed that up?”

They could hear Dr Hooper flipping through a file. “Let’s see. Physiotherapy can be very helpful. I see you did some of that last time, with a Dr Thompson…”

“Didn’t help that much, did it?” John tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. He knew it wasn’t Dr Hooper’s fault – not really fair to kill the messenger.

“Maybe give someone else a try, then. That’s your best bet for a shorter recovery. I really recommend taking it slow, though – you don’t want to risk worsening the tendonitis or your chances for a full recovery.”

“Understood. That’s all the questions I have at the mo… John?” John shook his head. “We’re all set then,” Mike continued. “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

“Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”

The line went dead, leaving the two of them sitting in silence for a moment.

“Really, how bad is this, Mike?” John’s voice was strained. He had barely moved since Mike first called.

“Well, we’ve got just over three months until the French Open, it wouldn’t kill you to miss any of the tournaments until that one – and even if you’re still recovering then, it’s not the end of the world. I reckon you’ll be able to play US, even if it does take you six months to recover. And, like she said, your shoulder doesn’t get any worse.”

“ _Six months, though,”_ John whined, his head in his hands.

“I know,” Mike said sympathetically. “It blows. But it may not take that long. We just have to take this one day at a time.”

“Sure as hell it does,” John grumbled. “You don’t happen to know of any way to magically get better, do you?”

Mike looked at him quizzically.

John let out a small chuckle. “Kidding, Mike.”

“No, I know you are you are, I just… You know what, I have an idea. About your recovery process. Let me make a few calls, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Should I get my hopes up?”

“Give me some time, I’ll let you know.”

John shook his head, but finally smiled. “Thanks, Mike.”

Mike laughed. “It’s my job, John. But my pleasure. Whatever we gotta do to get you back on the court.”

~

John was just cleaning up after dinner when his phone rang.

“John, it’s Mike. And Greg.”

“Hey John,” his coach interjected. “Mike told me about the diagnosis. I’m sorry mate, I should have seen this coming-”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Greg, it’s not your fault. So, what’s going on, guys?”

“We’ve got some news.” Mike’s voice sounded cautiously hopeful.

“Right, well, spit it out, then!” John pacing in his kitchen now. _Please, let it be good news, please, please, please…_

Mike laughed. “Well, alright… have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

John thought for a moment; he knew he had heard the name before… “Oh yeah, he’s a personal trainer or something, right? Didn’t the Trevor kid used to work with him?”

“Yeah, that’s right. He’s a consultant; he doesn’t work for anyone specifically. Players and coaches go to him if they’ve got a problem a bit out of their depth. He mainly does physiotherapy, but he’s worked as a trainer for a few people. There’s no one else like him in tennis.”

John considered. “And we’re considering rotator cuff tendonitis out of our depth, then?”

“It’s your third time, John,” Mike said sternly.

John huffed out a short laugh. “Yeah, I know. So, are you bringing him in, then?”

“That’s the plan, yes. Greg and I talked it over and got in touch with him.”

“Greg, you’re on board for this as well?” John thought it was pretty clear that they needed a better approach to recovery this time, but he didn’t want his coach to be shoved in the corner in the process.

“Yeah, I think it’s a good idea. You know I do my best with you, but if it’s back _again_ … frankly, I don’t know what else to do. And I’ve heard this Holmes guy is bloody good. A tennis genius.” Greg chuckled. “Which will hopefully compensate for what a piece of work he is. I don’t mean to scare you off, but there’s a reason he doesn’t work for any one person. Nobody can tolerate him for that long. But when you’re desperate for his help you just try to get past that.”

John paused. “Have you worked with him before?”

“No, not personally,” Greg admitted. “Colleagues have though, so I’ve heard the stories, and I’ve met him in passing once or twice. He’s interesting, that’s for sure.”

“I thought you were trying to tell me this is a good idea?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Greg laughed. “I really think it is; he could help you out a lot. I just wanted to give you a little forewarning.”

Well, if Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the most pleasant of people, that was okay. John wasn’t always pleasant himself. He could deal with that, especially if he was as good as people said. “Alright then. If you guys think it’s a good idea, I’m all for it.”

Mike chuckled. “Good, because he’ll be here tomorrow. See you at 10 am.”

John hung up the phone. _Well, this is going to be interesting._ Done in the kitchen, he tried to find something to keep him occupied for the evening. What he’d really like to do is practice hitting, but he knew he couldn’t do that. Of course he couldn’t. _Stupid bloody shoulder._

He ended up wandering aimlessly through the house for a bit, which helped to rid him of some of his restlessness. He intended to turn in early, but found that he wasn't the least bit tired once he lay down. Instead, he got out his computer. _Well, there’s nothing else to do._ Without another thought, he opened a search engine and typed in “Sherlock Holmes.”

The first link he clicked on appeared to be Holmes’ website – _The Science of_ _Tenez_. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, consulting tennis expert,” John read. “I’m not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn’t understand. I deal mostly in the realm of physiotherapy, personal training, and generally knowing what others do not. If you need assistance with a problem, contact me and we’ll discuss its potential.” John shook his head, laughing a little to himself. He was a bit skeptical – Holmes sounded analytical at best and pretentious at worst. 

John continued to read up – he found a blog devoted to the man, written by fans who claimed to be “Sherlocked” by both his tennis expertise and good looks. He also found a couple interviews from various players Holmes had worked with. They all pretty much said the same thing about him – that he’s a bit of a prat, but does remarkable things for your game. Whether they had an injury, a hitting problem, or another issue holding them back, it seemed he was somehow able to help them when no one else had been able to make progress.

John decided to stop reading there - he didn’t want to get his hopes up just yet. Nor did he want to make a judgment of Holmes before he’s had a chance to meet him. Which, he supposed, he would get to soon enough.

~

John woke up later than usual. He’d had an awful night of sleep, and his shoulder was aching. Grumbling to himself, he took a shower, slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt, and started up the coffee. As it brewed, he took a look around – he really should have cleaned last night. He tried to tidy up, but soon gave up and settled for piling everything in one massive stack on his desk and tossing his equipment in the closet.

Just then, there was a knock at his front door. John glanced at the clock – 10 am on the dot. _Here goes nothing._ Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

On the other side was a man probably no older than 25. He had looked older in the pictures John saw online the night before. Taller, too – though he was still significantly taller than John. John was hit with an eyeful of brown curls and high cheekbones; the collar of the man’s fitted black tracksuit turned up against his fair skin, providing another dramatic contrast. He could see now why there were fangirls online raving about his looks.

“John Watson?”

John blinked and looked up, meeting piercing blue eyes. “Y-yeah, that’s me.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you,” the man said reaching out to shake his hand.

John’s brain came back online. “You as well,” he said, returning the handshake with a smile. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you.” John noticed that while Sherlock was hitting all the right social cues, he really didn’t seem to be paying attention to what he was saying. Although he had probably done this so many times that it was second nature to him now.

John led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked, gesturing to the pot on the counter.

“No thank you.”

John shrugged and poured himself a mug. When he turned back around, Sherlock was sitting with his feet up on John’s table, smirking at him.

“So, John Watson. Twenty-seven years old, been playing tennis for fourteen years, professionally for six. This is your third time with rotator cuff tendonitis in your right shoulder, and your current coach clearly doesn’t know how to prevent it, so that’s where I come in. Hardly surprising that of all injuries common amongst tennis players that this is the one you struggle with, given your hitting style, as well as your origins as a player. Now, which was it, substance abuse or something more domestic?”

John gaped at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Your father. Presumably the major stressor in your life and in turn the reason you started playing.”

 _What the hell? Who the hell is this guy?_ John stared at the stranger lounging in his kitchen, crossing his arms. This guy had been talking about tennis, more or less. Where had that come from, and how had he possibly known? Unless Mike or Greg had said something – but why would they? They knew it wasn’t something he cared to talk about and neither ever brought it up. He noticed Sherlock was still looking at him expectantly. “He… was a drinker,” John said warily. “Sorry, why did –”

“Neither your coach nor your agent told me that.”

Well then. That was interesting. John wasn’t sure if he was pissed that this random guy knew something so personal about him, or relieved that at least Mike and Greg hadn’t said anything. Or amazed because, well, Sherlock _had_ somehow known without being told. His curiosity got the better of him. “Then how did you know?”

“Hey John, you in here?” John turned toward Mike’s voice coming from the front door. He then looked back at Sherlock, who winked at him, and went to shake hands with Mike and Greg.

John welcomed them in and the four of them sat around his table, discussing his injury and his training thus far. John knew he should be paying attention, but his mind was still stuck on Sherlock. He thought about what his website had said about knowing what others don’t; he had been skeptical, but now…

“...soft tissue massage, of course. And we have a lot of muscle strengthening to do. Greg, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking. It’s annoying. No, we’re not going to use dry needling; we need to focus on technique correction,” Sherlock went on.

“What’s wrong with his hitting technique?” Greg asked dubiously.

Sherlock looked at him as if he’d asked what colour the sky is. “Have you ever paid attention to his angles?”

“Oh, come on, if you’re just making this up-”

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Girls, please.”

“John, what do you think?” Sherlock asked earnestly. 

John looked up in surprise. Greg shrugged at him. “I just want to get better. Whatever you think, I’m game.”

Sherlock smiled. “Excellent. We’ll get you out on the court and better than ever. You just need to trust me. And you,” he added, pointing at Greg, “need to let me take the lead on this, and try not to mess anything up.”

Greg shook his head. “I can do what you tell me, no need to bare your teeth.”

“We’re glad to have you on board, Sherlock,” Mike added. 

“John, we’ll get started this afternoon,” Sherlock said, turning to face him. “I’ve already texted someone to bring my belongings over from the hotel.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? I always stay with whoever I’m working with. And you seem to have enough room here,” he said with a glance around, a big, phony smile on his face.

That was a bit odd. Then again, Sherlock seemed to be rather eccentric, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. John glanced at Mike, who just shrugged at him. Well, whatever. It was true, he did have plenty of room. “Okay, sure, that’s fine. There’s a bedroom upstairs you can use.”

Sherlock smiled again, but genuinely this time. “Thank you. Now, John Watson, you better get changed – we’ve got work to do.”

~

“What’s your average run?”

Sherlock and John were standing at the edge of John’s driveway, ready to go. “You know I’m supposed to be taking it easy, right?” John questioned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “On your shoulder, yes. How far?”

“Six to eight miles, if we’re just going for endurance. Didn’t Greg tell you all my training information?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. Doesn’t matter, I prefer to collect my own data.”

John shook his head, trying to suppress a smile as they took off. It felt good to run – to do any kind of physical activity, really. He was trying not to think about his shoulder, though. If he was too conscious of how it was moving, he was bound to worry himself over the slightest twinge of pain. He forced his mind to a different topic, which wasn’t hard, considering how intriguing his running partner was. He thought back on their conversation earlier; how on earth had Sherlock known about his father? He kept his personal life private, barely talking about his family if he could help it…

“Okay, you’ve got questions.” Sherlock’s voice interrupted his musings. John figured now was as good a time as ever.

“Who are you, really? How did you know all that… stuff about me?”

“John, I’m a consultant. People bring me in because I’m an expert. It is my job to know who I’m working with, and to know more about them and what they need than anyone else. I know who you are, and the injuries you’ve dealt with in the past. When your agent called me, I knew the tendonitis in your right shoulder had to have returned, otherwise there would be no reason to consult me. It’s just common knowledge. Now beyond that, I didn’t know – I saw. You’re a strong hitter, particularly when it comes to overhand shots. Not only are they your most powerful, but you know you have the most control over them - if you can use them to gain an advantage, you always do. You’ve been practicing them for a long time, since you first started playing tennis, in fact; you were thirteen years old. No one in your family is a well-known athlete; your mother is seen at matches on occasion but not often. That suggests you weren’t forced into the sport. Additionally, if you had been, you likely would have started as a child. No, you chose this sport on your own. If you had simply been playing for fun, you might still play every now and then, but you wouldn’t be competing at such an intense level now. No, it took sacrifices, _years_ of hard work to get here. You must have had a deeper connection to the sport, then – a more important motivation. Emotional release. Solace. The tennis court became a home to you. And in tennis, not only did you find a way feel power and control, but also an outlet for anger and stress. Why would a thirteen-year-old boy be looking for all of these things in a sport? Troubled life at home. Most likely substance abuse, such as a drinking problem, or some other form of abuse. Divorce also an option, but slightly less likely, due to the hope that the separation would diffuse the tensions present. You’re the type to try to deal with trouble on your own rather than create more of it, so when your father started drinking, you would take it out on tennis balls rather than your bedroom wall.”

John stared at him for a moment. “That… was amazing,” he finally managed to say.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You think so?” he asked, not nearly as out of breath as John expected him to be – they were running, for God’s sake.

“Of course it was!” John let out a breathless laugh. “I mean, that’s not really something I like to think about, and I’d prefer it wasn’t public knowledge, but really, that was quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock laughed with him. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What _do_ people normally say?” He couldn’t imagine anyone being anything but wowed.

“Something along the lines of ‘shut the hell up and get on with the training.’”

John shook his head. “So, you notice things about people, and can read them, I guess? And then, obviously, you know an awful lot about tennis.”

“Naturally. Not only do I need to know my clients, but I know this sport. Intimately. I know every hit, every variation, what to do in any situation you could be faced with on a court. I know how to get into an opponent’s head, and how to keep them out of mine. I know what injuries players face, how they begin and progress, and how to stop them. I know how to recover, the various ways to train, stretch, practice. I have analyzed this game, John. I’ve come to understand it in an objective, rational way. I know what I’m doing. And I know how to get you recovered and back in the game very soon.”

John smiled as they ran. He may not have known him long, but he trusted Sherlock. He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly – there was just something about him that made John feel like things were going to be different this time. Maybe this wasn’t about to be the end of his career.

The run went by much faster than John was expecting. It had felt great to stretch his muscles, get the blood pumping again. He let himself enjoy the post-run exuberance as Sherlock helped him stretch afterward.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, as he started to massage the area around John’s shoulder.

“My father and I never really got on,” John replied evenly. “And it just got worse once he started drinking. He and my mum split up when I was 15. None of us really stayed in touch… he died a few years later.”

“Us?”

“Mum, me, and Harry,” John sighed, letting his eyes fall shut. “My younger sister. She started drinking a few years ago. We haven’t spoken much since then. Mum still tries with her, I don’t know why… Sorry, this has got to be boring you, I’ll shut up.”

“No!” Sherlock interjected quickly. “I mean, no, it’s… it’s fine.”

John smiled.

~

That night, John lay in bed awake for a while. He couldn’t stop thinking about the day’s events. Just this morning he had met Sherlock Holmes, and now the man had moved in with him and they had already begun their work together. He knew it would be a while until he’d be out on the court again, but he felt good about how the day had gone.

John soon found his thoughts drifting from the training to the trainer himself. Sherlock wasn’t at all like he was expecting. Sure, he could see how Sherlock’s deductions might rub someone the wrong way – he had been surprised to be picked apart so thoroughly and confidently by a man he had never met before, no doubt others were too. But he got the sense that Sherlock didn’t always know if he was offending someone – or if he did, he just didn’t much care. Either way, he told the truth as he saw it, and only if it somehow related to their tennis life. John was a bit struck by Sherlock’s approach to tennis; the cold logic and reason he used was a far cry from the passion and power with which John had always played the game. But maybe the new perspective was just what he needed. He thought it was rather brilliant, actually.

In fact, Sherlock himself seemed pretty brilliant. Arrogant, sure, and certainly rude at times - but fascinating all the same. He was something of a mystery, John supposed. And he wanted to figure him out.

~

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he had gotten himself into. And that almost never happened.

He knew what he was doing professionally, of course. He had assessed the problem, knew how to fix it, and had planned out exactly how he was going to do it. Who the problem belong to, however, was what had him a bit unsettled.

He had heard of John Watson, of course. He had been a finalist in Australia three years ago, and had won the US Open a year ago, as well as several other tournaments over the course of his professional career. Sherlock had never paid an overt amount of attention to him. He seemed to fly under the radar most of the time – consistently good, but typically not “the one to watch.” After one week together, Sherlock could easily rattle off any of John’s statistics. He knew John Watson, tennis player, as exhaustively as any of his other clients. However, John Watson, person, was proving to be much more difficult to crack.

Sherlock knew how to read people. He could know things about them from the most miniscule details; this was what made him leagues better than everyone else when it came to refining someone’s game, or helped him fix a problem no one else could manage. And along with that, he would just get to know an awful lot about the individual people as well. After their first meeting, he thought he had John Watson figured out. After their second, he knew he had been wrong.

Sherlock was used to people finding his deductions invasive but useful at best, and appalling and uncalled for at worst. But rarely were people downright amazed, without much regard for the intimate details of their life now out in the open. In fact, he couldn’t remember the latter ever happening. John didn’t seem to be an overly trusting person – it’s better not to be, in a business where people are constantly trying to manipulate and beat you – but Sherlock got the sense that John found him worth trusting. And not just Sherlock Holmes, his temporary trainer, but Sherlock Holmes, person. That was unusual.

And it was more than that. It was the way John approached their work each day. He rarely complained about his injury, and instead put his focus on getting better. Sherlock had worked with people who whined constantly, and it made him want to wring their neck. But John understood that bitching about things wouldn’t make them go away. The majority of Sherlock’s clients were idiots, so this aspect of John was rather refreshing.

John’s fiery side was also unexpected. They were almost two weeks into training when he snapped.

Sherlock could tell John was feeling on edge, frustrated about not being able to play. He had seen the symptoms time after time in his clients; he also felt it himself during the slow periods, when no one was being interesting and offering him a new problem to solve. He had been told he turned monstrous if he was keyed up for too long. And though John was far more polite than he could ever hope to be, Sherlock could tell he was heading down that path.

“What’s the agenda for today?” John asked at breakfast. Sherlock heard the question he had actually wanted to ask. _How much longer until I can play again?_

“You know it’s still too early for you to hit. But I was thinking we could work on your court today. Do some speed work.” Sherlock took a sip of coffee, trying to gauge John’s reaction. As predictable as he had expected John to be, he found the man kept surprising him.

John looked mildly surprised, but nodded. “Yeah, that might be good. Let’s try that.”

The workout went well, as far as Sherlock could tell. John needed some fast-paced work like this, and Sherlock hoped that at least being on the tennis court would be enough sate John’s cravings for it, even if he was just doing sprints.

It worked for a while. John was soon breathing hard and sweating, Sherlock pushing him to go faster. He still had restless look in his eyes, but he was genuinely smiling, and Sherlock could see the tension leaving his body with each repeat. When they had finished, John seemed more content than he had the past few days.

Unfortunately, the calm didn’t last long. Only a few hours later, Sherlock found John sitting in his living room, clearly trying to read and failing. He took in John’s rigid posture, his tapping right foot, and the way his gaze kept drifting in the direction of the court.

Sherlock sighed disapprovingly. “John, you know you can’t play yet, it would completely throw off the schedule I’ve got you on. And the doctors haven’t okayed it, which is less important, but Mike and Graham seem to place importance on that fact,” he added matter-of-factly.

“For goodness…” John trailed off, shaking his head. “First off, it’s Greg. Second, I _know_ I can’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though.”

“I thought getting you out there this morning would help.” Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if it had been more of a treat or a tease. Not like he going to let his uncertainty show.

“Yeah, me too,” John grumbled. “I mean, it _did,_ but only for so long. How soon could we work out there again?”

“Four days at the earliest.”

John was quiet. “Because of your bloody recovery program.”

“Because it would be too much strain on your body,” Sherlock replied, eyes narrowed.

John let out a short, irritated laugh. “You don’t have to tell me what my body can and can’t do!”

“Well at the moment, it looks as though I do,” Sherlock retorted. “I have taken care to calculate every aspect of your recovery, John, and I’ll be damned if your sentimental urges spoil it. And even if you weren’t injured, no one would be advising you to do sprint repeats on consecutive days.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but those facts seemed to push John over the edge. “You don’t have to treat me like a fucking child, you know,” he fumed. “I’m a grown man, I’ve done this before.”

“Yes, and yet you continue to injure yourself. But this time will be different, because I’m here,” Sherlock reminded him. “And I know that if you continue to stick with what I have planned, you will be playing sooner than anyone is expecting. So I suggest that you take my word as gospel.”

John got up abruptly after that, shoving his book to the side and storming toward the kitchen. Sherlock remained where he was, unsure of what to do. Honestly, why was John being so irrational?

He heard the refrigerator door open, then close a few moments later. “Sherlock,” John’s voice called slowly. Dangerous. Unpredictable. “Did you drink the rest of the milk and then leave the bloody container in?”

Sherlock froze. “Um, yes, how does that relate to-”

“For fuck’s sake!”

John was decidedly yelling now, and Sherlock heard what must have been the milk carton hit the wall. _He better not have strained his damn shoulder doing that,_ Sherlock thought agitatedly as he grabbed his coat. He needed to fix this.

~

John felt awful.

He shouldn’t have yelled at Sherlock. It wasn’t his fault that John’s body didn’t cooperate with everything he wanted to do. He was just so frustrated. This was the absolute worst part about recovering from an injury. He could feel himself getting better. He could go about his daily tasks without shoulder pain, and it didn’t bother him much when he slept anymore. But he still wasn’t allowed to play tennis, and it was driving him mad. And snapping at Sherlock had only made him feel worse. He had heard him flee after yelling at him about the milk... John shook his head. Of all the things in the world, John had gotten pissed about milk. And now Sherlock was gone, probably finding anything to do that didn’t involve being cooped up with his angry, emotional client. And while he couldn’t blame Sherlock for that, he hoped he would come back sometime soon, so he could at least apologize.

John groaned. He would usually have dealt with his irritation by playing, and not being able to was the very cause of all of this. And he couldn’t even let his frustrations out on a run or another workout, because he had already done his quota for the day.

Just then, the front door opened. John looked up to see a slightly miffed, more-than-slightly damp Sherlock struggling with several shopping bags.

“Here, let me help,” John said, quickly getting up.

Sherlock hesitated, but let John grab two of the bags. “John,” he said carefully. “I’m not sure what I did to make you upset, but I apologize. I’m… not the best with people. I suppose you already knew that. But I hope this helps.”

So Sherlock had spent the last hour and a half thinking _he_ had somehow messed up. John felt like kicking himself. “No, Sherlock, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was just in a rotten mood, and you were there to take it out on. But I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” He gave Sherlock a small, apologetic smile before opening the first bag to find two cartons of milk. “God, Sherlock, you didn’t have to do that!” He was really smiling now. “Thank you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat self-consciously. “Yes, well, you were out, so it was no trouble to get more.”

John eyed the other bags. “It’s not all milk, is it?”

Sherlock’s lips cracked into a cautious smile. “No. I got us takeaway too. Chinese. And… well, this is probably childish, but I thought it might make you feel better until you can properly play again…” He looked away, embarrassed, as John opened the final bag. Inside was a Wii gaming system, complete with Wii sports.

John couldn’t believe his eyes for a moment. “You bought me Wii tennis?”

Sherlock continued to look everywhere but at John. “You’re right, it was asinine of me, really-”

“I think it’s brilliant.” John was grinning hugely at him. Sherlock may put up a cold front, but it was starting to seem like that’s all it was – a front. John couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something so considerate for him. “Seriously, Sherlock. Thank you.”

Sherlock met his eyes, a faint blush now present in his cheeks. And oh, did John like that his words were the cause of that.

They ended up playing for about four hours straight. For as much as Sherlock blew it off at the beginning, he was actually quite competitive. John ended up winning more games, which put Sherlock in a pseudo-sulk. But once John suggested they play doubles against the Wii versions of his real opponents, he threw himself back into it.

“Please, Federer and Nadal would never play together, their techniques clash horribly!”

“All the better for us, then! Finally, my odds are better than theirs.” John leaned in toward the screen, ready to go. “It’s a good thing they put the names, otherwise I’d have no clue who we were playing. You didn’t make Rafa’s looks accurate at all.”

“You’re one to talk! You can’t even tell that’s me!”

“That looks _exactly_ like you, and I won’t hear anything different. It even has the cheekbones!”

John turned just in time to see the scandalized look on Sherlock’s face and laughed heartily. He couldn’t remember the last time he had just relaxed and had some fun; he had a feeling that Sherlock was part of the reason he was enjoying himself so much. They were going to have to do this more often.

~

After that, the two of them started working better together. As far as his recovery training went, John was doing everything Sherlock directed him to. They worked hard in the gym almost every day, and were keeping John’s aerobic fitness up to speed with running and stationary biking. John even soldiered through the long, daily blocs of stretching and massaging, which could range anywhere from slightly uncomfortable to downright painful, without complaint. He trusted Sherlock, and knew that if they did everything right, he would be back on the courts soon.

Sherlock could tell when John needed a break physically (John always insisted he could go a little longer, but knew Sherlock was right) or mentally (the Wii was terribly useful at these times). John told Sherlock when he needed space; Sherlock was good about this, as he often did as well. However, it wasn’t uncomfortable for the two of them to be together and just keep to their own business. They fell into a natural rhythm easily; in fact, John nearly forgot what it was like before Sherlock lived there.

John also enjoyed just spending time with the man. He had endless interesting stories about past clients and the work he’s done. He rarely spoke about his personal life, but John was able to get him to open up a few times.

“If you didn’t play tennis, what would you be doing?” Sherlock asked him after a workout one day. He always asked John questions while rubbing out his muscles. John suspected he could often deduce the answers himself, but it always gave him something to think about besides the pain, so he was grateful.

“You know, I’m not quite sure. If I hadn’t been recruited to play at uni, I would’ve gone into the military.”

“Really?” Sherlock sounded only slightly surprised. Case in point.

“Yeah. I really considered it for a while,” John said between deep breaths. “But then I figured if I could turn tennis into a career instead, I may as well. So I played tennis and studied history instead.”

“Why history?”

“My father always hell-bent on me becoming a doctor, so I was really just looking for a complete opposite field of study.” John laughed. “And history turned out to be pretty interesting after all. So maybe I’d be a history teacher, if the tennis thing didn’t work out.”

Sherlock hummed as he moved from John’s legs to his shoulder. “I think you’d be good at that. You’re likeable and fairly patient.”

“I’m blushing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You could be a tennis coach. Someday. After you retire.”

John smiled to himself at the thought and let his eyes fall shut as he tried to block out the necessary pain. “What about you? What would you be doing if you weren’t doing this fancy made-up job?”

Sherlock chuckled, digging his hands deeper into the muscles of John’s shoulder. “Depends. I thought about being a detective for a while, as well as a chemist. But, as you so kindly pointed out, having a “made-up” job as a consulting tennis expert gives me more freedom. And it’s a constant source of challenges and excitement, which is fortunate. My mind can’t handle the tedium of boring, normal people with their boring, normal lives. I’d go mad.”

“You’re already mad,” John replied with a playful smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Australia – the Australian Open takes place in January. John had to drop out early because of the progressing injury. Also, for the title of Sherlock's blog - “tenez” is Old French for tennis, which is where the name for the sport came from in the 16th century.


	3. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's back to hitting again! But with those tensions resolved, others make their way to the forefront...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief, not super descriptive conversation about drugs and rehab toward the end of this chapter, just so y'all know. Don't want that to hit anyone unexpectedly.

 John woke with a start. _Today’s the day._ He dressed quickly, practically bouncing into the kitchen, where Sherlock was waiting for him with coffee.

“Someone’s a little excited this morning. I’m not sure you’ll be needing this…” he smirked, pushing the mug out of John’s reach.

“Oh, shut up,” John returned cheerfully, swatting his hand away. Sherlock was right – he was more than a little excited. He was finally cleared to start hitting again. It was much sooner than the doctors were expecting, but Sherlock was not the least bit surprised. According to him, they were right on schedule.

By the time they got out there, John could barely contain himself. It was always like this, coming back from an injury. He felt such an overwhelming love for this sport; just getting back out on the court was giving him an adrenaline high. _Breathe,_ he reminded himself. He was still recovering, and they were going to ease back into this. The last thing he needed was to be overeager and irritate his shoulder his first day hitting. But Sherlock was there, and John knew he wouldn’t let that happen.

“Alright, John. We’re going to volley for a bit. But I need you to go easy. No need to put a lot of power behind your ground strokes yet. And we’re going to refrain from serving and other overhead shots for now as well. Got it?”

John nodded. He waited as Sherlock headed back to the baseline, bounced the ball as few times, and lobbed it over the net.

_Thwack!_ John hit the ball easily, a soft forehand shot that sailed over the net. God, he had missed this. The two of them practiced hitting for about half an hour before moving on to the shoulder-strengthening exercises John had recently started. He usually found them tedious, however necessary - but today he didn’t even mind them. He had _finally_ been able to play again, and his shoulder hadn’t hurt once. He couldn’t stop grinning.

“You look like you’ve just won the lottery,” Sherlock smirked.

“Yes, well, you look like a smug twelve-year-old, but I wasn’t going to say anything,” John replied, his grin widening. He didn’t mind the teasing. Though more subdued than John, he could tell that Sherlock was in a very good mood as well. John was sure he liked seeing his work pay off, as it was now.

Strengthening exercises transitioned to stretching, as was their routine. John lay on his back as Sherlock stood over him, pushing back against one of John’s extended legs. “You’re in an excellent place in your recovery at the moment, John. Right on track.  And today’s session was incredibly useful to me in planning how your training will proceed. If all goes according to plan, we’ll have you ready to play before the French Open.”

John felt the breath go out of him. He had hoped, certainly, but he was hesitant to think about the possibility much before. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel good, are you?”

Sherlock met his eyes. “John, there are a few things I absolutely never do. One of which is give people false hope. I wouldn’t say it unless I had every reason to believe it to be true.” He gave John a small smile.

As Sherlock knelt down and extended the stretch to John’s hip, John felt warmth flood through him. This was different than the exuberance he was feeling – it was softer, slower. He looked up at Sherlock’s face – much closer to him now – and the urge to kiss him flickered through him. _No, stop._ He consciously shoved the thought down, as he had done before; the thought had entered his head seemingly out of nowhere a few weeks ago, and since then had been sporadically popping up. John closed his eyes and focused on his breathing as Sherlock continued to stretch his lower half. _Relax, Watson, it’s probably nothing. It’s just because you’re really happy about playing again, and Sherlock helped you get here. You do not fancy your trainer. Come on. Be professional._

Maybe if he thought it enough he’d believe it.

~

Sherlock stayed awake long after John went to bed. He had been in such a good mood earlier, so Sherlock felt he should indulge John and celebrate the day’s victory with him. He wasn’t sure why; he typically did what he wanted in his spare time, rather than pander to the whims of his clients (if anything, they pandered to his). But he found he actually wanted to spend time with John - his high spirits were contagious. However, that meant he was up late working now. Not that he minded. He did his mental work better at night, anyway.

Sherlock lay on his bed, eyes closed, hands resting on his chest in prayer position. But in his mind palace, he was running. Swinging a racquet. Analyzing. Swinging again. And again.

He moved to watch John swing now. _No, not so fast_. He slowed down John’s swing, scrutinizing every motion, how his body moved, the way the racquet connected with the ball. Angles. 

He stepped back to rewatch one of John’s matches from last year. He hadn’t won, but Sherlock thought it was some the most understatedly brilliant tennis he’d ever seen. John played with passion – Sherlock had known that. He hadn’t realized how smart he played, though. John was one of those players who gave off an approachable vibe; he didn’t look intimidating, or favor the fancy, crowd-pleasing shots. But he played a clever game. Opponents would see him as the unassuming, smiling player they were expecting, only to be caught off guard by his subtle attacks. John knew what his strengths were, and wasn’t afraid to use them to go in for the kill.

Sherlock’s eyes sprang open. He knew exactly what John needed.

~

“You want me to what?” John looked up at Sherlock, confusion evident on his face.

“Swing. Just swing.” Sherlock was standing off the court, staring intently at John.

“At nothing?”

“Yes. Problem?”

“No, no… any swing in particular?”

“Oh, whatever comes to mind.”

Sherlock crouched down, eyes never leaving John. He watched as John adjusted his grip and swung. A forehand. After a few, he switched to his backhand swing. Then a volley. Lob. His signature drop shot. Sherlock took it all in. “Try a few overhand now,” he commanded.

John went through a few serves and smashes before Sherlock called for him to stop.

“How do you feel?” he asked, jogging over.

“Fine. I trust there was a point to that?”

“Naturally.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “First, we need to up your strengthening exercises; you’ve been compensating for weak shoulders since your last bout of tendonitis, at least. Fixing that problem is our first priority. And our second would be fixing your swing.”

“What’s wrong with my swing?”

“The angles are all wrong.”

John looked not only confused, but a bit vexed. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

“It’s a subtle enough problem, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that Lestrade or any other coaches you may have worked with didn’t see it. After all, it’s not like your hitting is bad. Why would they have reason to suspect anything was wrong? But it’s obvious, really, if you know where to look.”

“So what do we do?”

Sherlock ignored the warm feeling that spread through him at John’s ‘we.’ _Focus._ “We need to work on your overhand swings. For your serves, you need to rotate your wrist inward, changing the angle with which the racquet hits the ball by about 45 degrees. Well, to be precise, 43 degrees, but I’ll give you a small margin. And with your overhead smashes, you need to bring your arm back about 5.4 inches. This will lessen the strain on your shoulder while still giving you maximum power for the shot.”

John looked… slightly in awe, actually. That was bizarre. Sherlock was just stating the facts, there was nothing remarkable about that. “Anything else?” he asked with a wonderstruck chuckle.

“Well, your forehand and backhand swings are good already,” Sherlock continued. “But they will be all the better once we get your shoulder stronger. And your drop shot swing – _God,_ it’ll be even more refined. That shot will be your most powerful weapon on the court, John.”

The look on John’s face was even more peculiar than before. Sherlock could pick out “hesitantly hopeful” and “determined,” but there was something else there, something he couldn’t quite recognize…

And just like that, it was gone, replaced with a focused gaze. “We better get started, then,” John declared, picking up his racquet again.

Sherlock pushed his thoughts back to examine later. Time to work.

~

_Fuck_. John lay awake that night, restless. He had tried to keep from thinking about it all day, but in the quiet dark of night, he couldn’t fight it anymore.

Yeah, he officially fancied his trainer.

More than fancied, really. Sherlock was more than just a handsome face. He had a brilliant mind, a sarcastic wit, an incredible work ethic. He was mad and unconventional and fascinating and _oh,_ this was so much more than fancying someone. He had been pushing back the feelings before, but seeing Sherlock at work today, hearing him talk about John as though he wasn’t some underachieving, broken player… it had hit him like a ton of bricks. Sherlock believed in him. John had been filled with such hope and excitement and adoration, and he just _knew._ These feelings weren’t about to go away. _Get a grip,_ he thought to himself forcefully. _Of all people, you aren’t seriously falling for_ Sherlock Holmes, _the untouchable, unbearable trainer everyone warned you about._ But John found he couldn’t even think the words without even more coming to mind in defense of Sherlock. It was everything about him that drew John in, all that he knew about him and all that he didn’t. And John wanted to know everything. What Sherlock had been like a child. What he looked like when he was sick. What it would be like to hug him. To kiss him. To feel his body underneath John’s own, naked-

_Fuck,_ John thought again. He shouldn’t be thinking about this - but that only encouraged his imagination. He thought of Sherlock naked, flush tinting his fair skin as John touched him. He had a feeling Sherlock’s skin would be soft. Sherlock, hard for John, asking for more-

John let out a shaky breath as he shoved his pants down and wrapped his hand around his own hardening prick. He thought of Sherlock, sweaty and panting, as he typically was after a hard run. John groaned quietly as he began to stroke himself, the mental image turning him on even more. He heard Sherlock’s voice in his head, praising John, the way he would after an especially good hit – _Fantastic!_ and _Excellent, John, again!_ God, even Sherlock’s voice was sexy, a deep baritone that could make people weak in the knees, if Sherlock wanted something from them. John had a feeling that if he ever found himself on the other end of one of those requests, he would do anything Sherlock wanted. He imagined his hands were Sherlock’s as he stroked faster, hips thrusting involuntarily to create more friction. He buried his face in a pillow to stifle the noise as he came, semen spilling out onto his stomach.

As John’s breathing slowly returned to normal, he looked down at himself and let out a short, hapless laugh. Sherlock was sleeping upstairs, and here he was, furtively getting off while thinking about him. John sighed. This was going to be so inconvenient.

~

John had known Sherlock had a reputation for being an eccentric trainer. That didn’t mean he wasn’t surprised when he arrived at the court to find about 100 tennis racquets waiting for him.

“Sherlock? I didn’t forget I was teaching a clinic today or anything, right?”

“No, those are all for you,” Sherlock replied, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “You’re going to throw them.”

“I’m sorry?” John wasn’t sure he was hearing this right. “You want me to throw tennis racquets?”

“Precisely. To simulate the forward throwing motion. This is where you need improvement.” Sherlock stated, looking at John expectantly.

John shook his head a little, chuckling. “Alright, then. Whatever you say. I’ll try anything you got for me at this point.”

Sherlock passed him a racquet. John gripped it by the handle, brought his arm back, and flung it out of the court.

“Good,” Sherlock praised. “Again.”

John threw racquet after racquet. Sherlock was mostly quiet, occasionally chiming in with a “Good, just like that,” or “Aim a little to the right next time.” John felt himself slip into his player mentality, moving in time to the music playing from his speakers. He grunted as he continued to throw the racquets over the netting and out of the court, focusing only on the physical, the task, the game. He was so zoned into the workout that at first didn’t notice when he ran out of racquets.

He stopped, breathing heavy, and turned to Sherlock for instruction.

“Go pick them up,” Sherlock commanded. “Run. This next part is a sprint workout,” he added, raising his stopwatch. “Go.”

John took off - collecting the racquets, bringing them back to Sherlock, going back to retrieve more. By the time he had finished, the muscles in his legs were screaming at him for a break. Panting, he dumped the last armful of racquets next to Sherlock’s feet and promptly tried to steady himself, hands on his knees.

“Four minutes, thirteen seconds. Not bad,” Sherlock said, eyebrows raised in approval.

~

“Ready to go?” John called as he laced up his shoes. He and Sherlock were going to watch the end of the F7 Futures tournament up in Preston; John still wasn’t ready to get back out there, but they figured it’d be a good chance to scope out some up and coming players. He had to admit, it felt strange leaving for a tournament wearing a button up and jeans instead of his usual uniform.

“Ready.” Sherlock came out of the kitchen, a travel mug of coffee in each hand. He looked too handsome for his own good, John thought, as he eyed Sherlock’s plum colored dress shirt and dark trousers.

They set off for the tournament in John’s car. They rode in comfortable silence for a while, with random conversation scattered throughout the drive.

“Do you go to many tournaments just to watch?” Sherlock asked after a bit, folding up his finished newspaper.

John looked sheepish. “You already know the answer to that,” he said. “No, not really. Not nearly as much as I should. But if I’m not playing, I usually find other things to be busy with. Though I guess that’s everyone’s excuse, isn’t it? At least, everyone I know certainly puts it to use.” He chuckled. “No, that’s not fair. My mum makes them when she can. Which isn’t that often, but still, she makes an effort.” John grew quiet. “It’s really nice to have her support,” he continued softly. “Especially after… well, you know about the rest of my family.”

“Yes.”

John cleared his throat. “What about you?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock grunted lazily.

“What’s your family like?” John had wondered for a while, but for some reason, it felt like a more difficult question to ask Sherlock than it did with other people. Maybe because he couldn’t at all picture what kind of home could have made someone like Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Dull.”

John snorted. “Oh come on, I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It’s true. My parents are retired and live in Kent. My brother lives in London.” He made a small noise of disgust.  “He’s old and insufferable and he works for the government.”

John turned to look at Sherlock when he didn’t continue. “That’s it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“Huh.” John turned back to face the road. _Well, it can’t hurt to ask, while we’re on the subject._ “Anyone else important? You know… girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

Sherlock looked surprised for a moment, before covering it up with an exasperated grunt. “If there were, don’t you think you would have seen someone around? Given that I live at _your_ house?”

“Right… yeah, right. Good point.” John laughed, hoping it would sound casual. He was pretty sure it didn’t.

~

John found that it was actually pretty refreshing to get out and watch a tournament. It was good to see some of the younger pros out on the courts, trying to make their way onto the ATP tours; it made John reminiscent of the beginning of his own professional career. The change of pace was nice – but also considerably slower than he was used to. He texted Mike and asked him to book a hotel for the night, knowing he wouldn’t feel like driving all night.

Despite the slower tempo of the afternoon, John was enjoying himself, no doubt thanks to Sherlock’s running commentary. “He’ll be a force to be reckoned with once he masters that smash,” and “Oh, he’s got a knee injury coming, look at that stride,” and “I’m amazed he even _made_ pro, he can barely handle this pace!” John was still enthralled by Sherlock’s ability to read so much about a player by the smallest aspects of their game.

The afternoon had been going smoothly until late in the afternoon, when Sherlock started acting… well, odd.

“God, about time that match ended, I thought they were going to have to cancel the rest of the night to finish it… Sherlock?” John looked over at his friend when he didn’t respond.

Sherlock, who didn’t appear to have heard him, was focused intently on one of the players taking the court. John glanced at the scoreboard – Jim Moriarty. John knew the name from tournaments – he was one of the most talked about up-and-coming players - but didn’t recall ever actually meeting him. He turned back to Sherlock, whose gaze continued to be fixed on Moriarty. John shrugged and sat back to watch the match.

It only took one game to see that Moriarty was a very showy player. He was good, certainly, but his playing style was very different from John’s. John reflexively turned toward Sherlock again, sarcastic comment on his tongue, only to find Sherlock had not moved since Moriarty had stepped onto the court. John wasn’t sure he had even blinked.

Sherlock never took his eyes off Moriarty until the match was over, when he returned to his usual position as if nothing had happened. John didn’t know why this one player made Sherlock so on edge, but he didn’t like it. He wanted to ask Sherlock about it, but figured to wait until they were on their own, rather than in the middle of a large group of spectators.

However, it turned out he didn’t have to wait that long. As they were slowly filing out of the stadium at the conclusion of the tournament, John felt Sherlock suddenly tense beside him. “Oh, bugger,” he growled quietly. “I had been hoping to avoid this.”

“What’s up? Sherlock?” John looked up, alarmed.

“Oh, look who we have here!” A high-pitched, fulsome voice called.

John looked up to see Jim Moriarty strolling toward them, with what was quite obviously a fake smile on his face. John stood up straighter and puffed out his chest a bit. He wasn’t sure this interaction was going to be pleasant.

“Jim Moriarty, hi, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, coming to stand directly in front of John. He extended his hand; John shook it.

“John Watson. Nice to meet you,” he replied automatically. He was good at pleasantries. He tried not to think about the instant aversion he was feeling. John shouldn’t dislike him already - he knew nothing about this man. Other than Sherlock quite obviously loathed him. Which shouldn’t be surprising, either – Sherlock didn’t truly like that many people – but this felt like much more than mild annoyance.

“What are you doing coming out to tourneys – shouldn’t you be playing in one?” Moriarty asked, grin widening.

John nearly rolled his eyes. This was almost worse than the gossip-hungry reporters. “Out for an injury at the moment,” he said, his tone hardening slightly. At least Mike wouldn’t get him in trouble for that answer.

“Ah, so that must be why you’re hanging around Holmes here.” Moriarty’s eyes glinted as he turned to address Sherlock. “So this one’s your newest fix, then? How nice. From one addiction to another. Oh, but what are you going to do when this one’s all better?” he continued, eyes widening in mock concern. “I do hope old habits don’t die _too_ hard.”

Sherlock was glaring daggers at Moriarty. “Consistent performance today, _Jim_. All show and tricks, no actual talent, as usual,” he sneered. “Sorry, love to stay and chat, but I believe we must be going.” And with that, he promptly grabbed John by the elbow and began to drag him away. John turned to look back over his shoulder to where Moriarty was still standing.

“Ciao,” he called, as he disappeared back into the hustle and bustle of the spectators.

“Sherlock, where are we going? What the hell was all that about?”  

“I’ll explain later. Oh, look – fish and chips! Hungry?”

~

They got back to their hotel late. Sherlock had kept him preoccupied with dinner at a local restaurant, where they had inevitably run into others from the pro tennis community. John was soon swept away with small talk, leaving him unable to bring up anything with Sherlock about their afternoon.

Their hotel room was nice, but small, with only one bed. The receptionist had apologized while handing over their key, saying it was the best they could do on such short notice, but the knowing look he gave John had made his ears burn red. As they were getting ready for bed, John finally had a chance to ask. “So, what was the deal with Moriarty today?”

Sherlock looked up at John with a false air of nonchalance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you never took your eyes off him while he played, and you seemed like you wanted to snap him in half when we ran into him after.”

“It would be better for everyone if I had,” Sherlock muttered. “He’s a pissy young player who thinks he can rule the game with modicum talent because he has both the information and financial needs to get what he wants,” he continued scathingly. “He lacks a respect for the game, for the _art_ of tennis, and only gives people what he thinks they want with his disgustingly overt displays. Honestly, those tricks belong in a circus rather than on the pro circuit.”

It was clear to John by the way Sherlock spoke about him that these weren’t just opinions he had formed from afar. “Did you work with him once?”

Sherlock looked appalled. “God, no. He tried to persuade me to, though. Thought we would’ve made a neat little team,” he mocked. “I wasn’t interested in his petty games. It seems he’s still bitter about it.” Sherlock shook his head dismissively as he lay down on the bed.

“Right,” John said, nodding. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock was going to respond to his next question, but as usual, his curiosity got the better of him. “Sherlock, what did he mean? When he said something about ‘one addiction to another’?”

Sherlock was quiet. “It seems that Moriarty did some very intensive research.”

That led to even more questions running through John’s head. He settled for simple. “What happened?”

Sherlock turned to stare at John, eyes boring into him. John held his breath. He had a feeling Sherlock was deciding whether he was actually going to share this, whatever it was, with John. He let out a breath as Sherlock’s gaze returned to the ceiling.

“I was sixteen,” Sherlock said softly. “Stuck in a boarding school I hated, with people I hated even more. I felt like I was rotting away in there, I was so unbelievably _bored…_ So, when given the chance to escape from that boredom, I took it,” he continued cautiously. “I tried to be careful – I told you, I’ve always been good with chemistry and the like, it wasn’t difficult to figure out dosage and what not. At least at first. After about a month I thought I could up it, but I got the calculations slightly wrong…” He took a shaky breath. “I woke up in the hospital. They told me one of the cleaning staff had found me.”

“Jesus,” John breathed.

“I was sent to rehab facilities. Honestly, it was better than the school. I could use my free time to study what I actually wanted to, without any pretentious idiots to interrupt. I wasn’t forced to socialize. And, in the long run, one of the best things about it was that they had tennis courts. I would spend hours at a time on them. I knew the basics from playing as a kid before I went away to school, but that was where I started to hone my craft, so to speak.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “That was where I had my true start. But I knew simply playing would be too tedious for me. So I worked to be better than anyone else could be with the training, mechanics, behind-the-scenes of the professional tennis world – and so, created my current job.” Sherlock finally turned his head back to look at John, who now was perched on the opposite side of the bed. “I have worked to keep that story private, and I imagine my brother has as well. So I’m not sure how Moriarty knows about it in any length, but with the dirt he has on so many others, I can’t say I’m surprised. However, I didn’t allow him to use it as leverage over me in the past, and I’m not about to now. So that’s the story.”

John was overcome with feeling. He wanted to tell Sherlock it was okay, that what happened in the past wouldn’t make John think any less of him; he wanted to punch Moriarty in the face, along with anyone at school who made it so unpleasant for Sherlock; he wanted to kiss whoever brought Sherlock back to the tennis courts, because otherwise how would he have met him? And he wanted to kiss Sherlock – he wanted to press him against the mattress, to shield him from the negativity he had been surrounded with his whole life, so he’d never have to face it alone-

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice brought him back out of his thoughts; he realized he had been staring at Sherlock the entire time, with his thoughts no doubt displayed clear as day on his face. Sherlock was eyeing him warily.

“Sorry, I just – look, Sherlock, it’s all fine, okay? I mean it. Thank you for telling me.” He felt honored that Sherlock trusted him enough for that.

“Of course.” Sherlock’s voice was subdued.

John lay down on his side of the bed and turned off the lamp next to him. They were both quiet, but John’s mind was shouting at him. There was so much energy in the room, so much tension filling the space between him. It would be so easy to roll over, to take Sherlock’s face in his hand and kiss him. Or he could just say the words – _Sherlock, I want you._ Sherlock had already shared something personal with him tonight; maybe it was only fair of John to do the same? God, he was so close, he could feel the heat radiating off Sherlock’s body next to him, just one roll and they would be pressed together –

“Look, Sherlock, I-”

“It’s late, John,” Sherlock’s voice interrupted. “I think it’s time we got to bed. Don’t want to throw off your training.”

“No, but-”

“Goodnight, John.”

John sighed and rolled over to face away from Sherlock.

~

“Alright, Doc, what’s the word?” John asked anxiously, holding the phone between himself and Sherlock. They were nearing the end of the month, as well as the end of Sherlock’s recovery program. John had increased the strength in his shoulder tremendously, and the rest of his training was coming along well. Sherlock could tell John was trying not to be hopeful, even though Sherlock had told him he would surely be cleared.

“Things are looking good, John,” Dr Hooper’s voice came though the speaker. “The tendonitis is completely gone from your rotator cuff, and the muscles there are stronger than I’ve ever seen them on you. So whatever you’ve been doing, it’s working. Be sure to keep that up. Besides that,” she continued. “Well, it’s up to your coaches too, but I’d say you’re all set to be playing full time again. How much have you been training lately?”

“Five days a week,” Sherlock chimed in.

“Gosh,” Dr Hooper sounded surprised. “And you haven’t been having shoulder pain?”

“Nope, I’ve felt great,” he confirmed.

“Well then, I’d say you really are ready!” Dr Hooper laughed. “If you have any questions or concerns, give me a shout.”

“Will do,” John replied with a grin. “Thanks again.” And with that, he hung up the phone and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

Sherlock froze. He certainly hadn’t been expecting that. After a moment he relaxed minutely, letting John hug him and say things like “I couldn’t have done with without you,” and “You really are the bloody best out there, Sherlock Holmes.” It was over too soon. John pulled away after a moment as Sherlock stored John’s words away, not wanting to forget them.

“Congratulations, John. You did it. You’re officially back in the game.” Sherlock gave him a small, but very genuine smile. Bittersweet as this was for him, he was proud of John. More so than he usually was when his clients were successful. He tried not to think about that.

“We did it,” John corrected. John was looking at him with that same peculiar glance that he just couldn’t seem to figure out. Sherlock panicked slightly.

“You should celebrate,” Sherlock said, finding sudden interest in the dust on the countertops. “Call Mike, Gavin, whoever else you talk to.”

“They can wait until tomorrow,” John said shaking his head. “What about you? Celebratory Mario Kart tourney?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“What, scared I’ll kick your arse?” John goaded mischievously.

Sherlock managed to throw him a disbelieving look. “After last time? In your dreams, Watson.”

Sherlock followed John to the sofa, trying to convince himself that packing his things would hurt less if he put it off until the last minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene where John had Sherlock throwing tennis racquets was inspired by something the Williams sisters used to do, shown in the documentary film "Venus and Serena." It's a really cool film, and helped a lot in general with the writing of this fic. And it's on Netflix, if anybody wants to check it out!
> 
> On an unrelated note, you can find me on tumblr at 221baenedict, if you're about that life.


	4. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Packing? Is Sherlock going to leave? If so, how will our boys ever get together? Let's find out...

“So you’re really all cleared to play then?” Mike asked excitedly.

John was sitting in Mike’s London office; he had come over to tell him the news after his morning workout. “Yes sir,” he replied, last night’s smile still on his face. “Dr Hooper said the tests all look good, and that my progress has been incredibly rapid compared to what she had projected. Of course, Sherlock said I was right on track, so I had a feeling I might be ready. I didn’t want to get my hopes up until we had it confirmed though.”

“I bet you’re over the moon,” Mike grinned. “I’m glad to hear it, mate. Have you told Greg yet?”

“Yeah, I left him a message on my way here.”

“Very good. I guess that means I can put out a new statement now, too,” Mike added, turning to his computer. “Let’s see – rotator cuff tendonitis returned – consulted with Sherlock Holmes, who helped with recovery – back to full-time training – looking forward to returning to World Tour soon?”

John nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

“You got it, then,” Mike said, saving the notes before turning back to John. “Speaking of Sherlock, when’s he moving out?”

John looked back at Mike, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Sorry, what?” He felt affronted at Mike’s question for some reason.

Mike, however, was blind to John’s reaction. “Well, his work is done – you’re all healed up! We can get Greg back in working with you; you don’t need Sherlock anymore. Besides, he’ll be on to another client soon, I imagine!”

Mike’s words felt like he had just had freezing water poured over him. Yes, John was healed, but he didn’t want Sherlock to go. He couldn’t imagine not having him around anymore. His shoulder may be better, but dammit, he still needed Sherlock. 

“I have to get going, Mike. We’ll talk soon,” he added hastily, as he stood up and made for the door.

~

John nearly ran inside. “Sherlock?” he called, heading up the stairs to the man’s room.

The door to Sherlock’s room was open. He looked inside, where he found Sherlock piling shoes into a small suitcase. “Oh. John,” Sherlock said, sounding startled. “You’re back earlier than I expected.”

John was breathing deeply, trying to get his anger under control. “You’re packing? To leave?”

“Yeees.” Sherlock said. The “obviously” was implied.

“When were you going to tell me about this?” John demanded. “Or was I just going to wake up one day to find you gone?”

“Of course I was going to tell you,” Sherlock countered dismissively, returning his focus to his shoes. “After all, I still have to settle payment with you, as well as sort out your training details with Lestrade. So it wasn’t necessary to bring up yet. But yes, you certainly would have known in an acceptable amount of time. I can at least tell you that I’ll be out of your hair and on my way soon.”

Oh, that was it. John was fuming now. He couldn’t believe how nonchalant Sherlock was being. Because dammit, Sherlock meant a lot to him. He had made John’s life better in so many ways, and he hated the fact that Sherlock could just waltz out of it, with nothing more than a distant “Goodbye, see you around sometime, probably.” And he hated how much this upset him. But at this point, there was nothing he could do to change that fact. “Are you serious?” he asked hotly. “That’s it? You’re just going to collect and walk out of here like nothing ever happened?” He was yelling now. He didn’t care. “Goddamn, Sherlock. I thought we were friends. I thought this friendship, partnership, whatever you want to call it – I thought this meant something to you. Because it sure as hell does to me. But apparently I was wrong.”

Sherlock had stood up and was now staring down at John with stormy eyes. “And what if it did, John? What if it did mean something? What if I’ve been dreading leaving this job since the first day I started working with you, because it was the first time I’ve actually been happy with someone I was consulting with? The first time I genuinely enjoyed being around someone, and them with me? How would you have me leave then?” he growled, moving closer, towering over John. “I’ve never done this before, John. I would never “hang out” with clients, or discuss things unrelated to tennis with them. But I like you, John, and I like being around you, and against all logic I’m going to miss you. So if my trying to let myself out of this as easy as possible is upsetting you, _I’m sorry,_ but I don’t know what else to do.”

John looked up at the man before him, finally seeing the anger and hurt and anxiety on his face. He couldn’t believe Sherlock felt so strongly about this – about _him._ Without another thought, John reached up and pulled Sherlock down into a bruising kiss. It was hard and needy and not at all romantic, but John didn’t care – he couldn’t help himself anymore. He just wanted Sherlock so badly.

Sherlock gasped. John kept his hold on Sherlock steady but took a step back, suddenly worried he’d overstepped.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it’s - it’s fine. More than fine!” he added, catching his breath. “Just surprised.”

“So you want this too?” John asked, waiting for confirmation.

“Oh God, yes,” Sherlock reassured. “Exactly. I just didn’t know if you would.”

“For a while now,” John laughed against the base of Sherlock’s throat before kissing him again – slower this time, but still enthusiastically. He ran his hands over Sherlock’s upper body as he backed him against the bedroom wall. “Sherlock?” he murmured. “Do you think maybe you could stick around for a bit? Be my full-time trainer?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Sherlock replied with a smile. He leaned down to kiss John once more before continuing. “Aren’t you supposed to talk to your agent and current trainer before making these kinds of decisions?”

“Fuck that,” John retorted. “I’m the one who pays them, at the end of the day. I’ve made my decision. They can either work with it or find a new player.”

“Neither of them is going to find a new player, John.”

John smirked. “I know.”

“You know what,” Sherlock continued, grinding his hips against John’s. “I don’t think I’m going to either. I think I’m going to be very happy-” he gave a slow thrust – “if I stay right here with you.”

“Oh, is that so?” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, voice low. “I’m not going to be too boring for you, am I?” he asked, slipping his hand into Sherlock’s pants.

“Not at all,” Sherlock groaned. “Bed?”

John tightened his hold on Sherlock and pulled him along as he moved back toward the bed. They fell back onto the mattress together, John struggling to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. He let Sherlock pull off his jumper, leaving him in just his t-shirt, as he got Sherlock’s shirt open and began to press messy, wet kisses onto his chest and neck. The surprised sound of pleasure that escaped Sherlock’s mouth sounded like music to John’s ears.

“Trousers off,” John demanded breathlessly.

Hastily, they kicked off their trousers. John wasted no time ridding Sherlock of his pants, either; his breath caught at the sight of Sherlock’s flushed cock. “This okay?” he asked again, not wanting to do anything Sherlock didn’t want to.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock breathed in return, snaking his own hand into John’s pants. John gasped at the contact; God, this was _so_ much better than he’d imagined. “Hold on,” Sherlock murmured, scooting up the bed until he could reach the bedside table. John laughed when Sherlock pulled out a small bottle of lubricant.

“Somebody’s well prepared,” he smirked.

“I like to be prepared for – _ah!_ – any possibility,” Sherlock stammered. John had squeezed some lube onto his fingers and had started stroking Sherlock’s cock. Once he was slick, John wrapped his hand around both of them and began to rock. John’s mind went blank as their cocks thrust together – he couldn’t remember anything feeling better. He was vaguely aware that he was whispering praise to Sherlock – “brilliant” and “wonderful” and “genius.” He heard Sherlock whimper; _God,_ it was gorgeous. John leaned in to kiss him hungrily as he stroked faster. He could feel his orgasm approaching, and with Sherlock’s moan of, “ _Yes, John, yes,”_ he let go.

Sherlock finished right behind John, collapsing next to him on the bed. They lay there together, panting for a minute, before John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand in his. “I’m really glad you’re staying,” he said softly.

“I’m just glad you caught me before I had finished packing,” Sherlock teased. “That would have been a horrible waste of time.”

That sent John into a fit of giggles. “Yeah, well I wouldn’t completely write that off,” he sniggered. “You should at least pack a few things to move downstairs.”

~

It turned out the adjustment from friends to lovers was quite an easy one. Sherlock began sleeping downstairs with John. There was more touching, and the addition of sex, obviously; but apart from that, not much changed in their routine. The training schedule was upped, now that John was clear to play full-time. Adjustments there were easy, too. John still wanted Greg to be a part of his training and coaching decisions, and fortunately the three of them worked well together. Some days Greg would work as John’s hitting partner while Sherlock studied and coached from the sidelines; other days, the roles would reverse. Sherlock eventually admitted that Greg wasn’t an incompetent coach - but there was no debate about which of the two of them was really in charge. Greg may have seniority, but Sherlock was unbeatable.

John was constantly reminded of this. Just one example was when Greg and John were hitting balls one afternoon. John felt way off his game. This kind of playing wasn’t going to get him far against opponents looking to wipe the court with him. “Hey, Greg, can you switch with Sherlock?” John asked, frustration radiating from him as he practiced his swing again.

“What’s up? You’re doing great! You’ve barely missed a ball today!” Greg exclaimed, jogging over to the net.

“Yeah, because you’re hitting the balls right to me. I need to run. And when you do make me run, you blast it, and it’d be impossible for even Djokovic to get.” John pointed out, rubbing his hands through his hair in aggravation. “Swap out.”

“Alright, alright,” Greg said defensively. “Sherlock, you’re in!” he called, heading over to take his place on the sidelines.

Sherlock came onto the court and met John at the net. “Alright?” he asked immediately.

“Yeah,” John exhaled loudly. “Greg just isn’t on today. I need-”

“To run. I know, I could tell just by watching you,” Sherlock said with a hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ll push you, John.”

“Alright, then,” John said, nodding once. “Let’s play.”

John loved playing against Sherlock; he truly was phenomenal out on the courts. He could get to almost any ball with those long legs of his – it only took him three strides to get from one sideline to the other, much to John’s envy. He could hit any shot with a combination of grace and power, and knew the best shot to counter any hit an opponent sent his way. He made it look so easy, yet John knew how much work he put into it - how calculated each move was. Honestly, Sherlock looked like a bloody model out there. John knew that if Sherlock played professionally, he’d be offered endorsements left and right.

Frankly, if Sherlock played professionally, John would be both honored and terrified to meet him on the court. But as a trainer? John still couldn’t believe his luck. Sherlock knew exactly what John needed, and how to push him to play better. Sherlock’s work went far beyond healing his injury at this point – his game had improved leaps and bounds, in ways John could never have predicted.

John settled back into position as Sherlock prepared to serve, taking a few deep breaths. Time to let his training and instincts take over.

Sherlock sent the ball flying his way – back left corner. John had to run for it. He got there just in time, sending it back with a forceful backhand.

Oh yeah. There was no question about it - Sherlock was the best trainer out there.

~

John wasn’t sure he would ever get tired of waking up in bed with Sherlock. He was a gorgeous sight in the morning, with his sleepy smile and ruffled hair sticking up on one side. He loved waking up before Sherlock, so he could unabashedly admire him, study every detail of him. But there were certainly perks to Sherlock being the first one awake as well - such as this morning, when John woke to Sherlock pressing kisses to his face, neck, and chest. _Best way to start the day,_ he thought blissfully. No sooner had the thought entered his mind when Sherlock showed him there was, in fact, an even better way.

“Ah, _God,_ Sherlock, that’s amazing, you’re amazing,” he babbled, as Sherlock dragged his tongue over John’s cock, taking him in his mouth. Sherlock moved steadily, the onslaught slow and sweet, leaving John prattling off praise until his brain couldn’t think of any word besides “Sherlock.” John came with a loud grunt; Sherlock sucked him through his orgasm, swallowing the spurts of semen as they came. When John finally relaxed back into the mattress, Sherlock pulled off with a pop, licking his lips.

John moved his hand, which had made its way into Sherlock’s hair, down to cup his face. “You didn’t have to swallow that,” he said with a rueful smile.

Sherlock waved his hand in protest. “It’s not a problem and there’s less clean-up.” He licked his lower lip again. “Not bad,” he added with a smirk.

John’s smile grew as he reached up and pulled Sherlock down next to him. “Good morning, by the way,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “That was fantastic. Thank you.”

“I thought you might have enjoyed it,” Sherlock said, the side of his mouth quirking up into one of those smiles only John got to see.

“Good deduction,” John teased.

“I must say though, I’m awfully glad your orgasm grunt sounds different than your tennis grunt,” Sherlock shot back, eyes gleaming. “Otherwise I might have had a difficult time concentrating out on the court today.”

“Oh, _God,_ ” John snorted, laughing heartily. After a moment, Sherlock joined in as well, his deep chuckle harmonizing with John’s high-pitched giggle.

Once their laughter finally died down, Sherlock rolled out of bed and began to change into his workout clothes.

“Where are you going?” John asked quizzically.

Sherlock paused in the bedroom doorway. “We’re out of milk, and I know you’ll want some with breakfast. I’ll be right back.”

“I love you, too,” John called back instinctively. The words took him by surprise – he hadn’t meant for them to come out like that. But they were true, and he supposed it was as good a time as any to say them.

Sherlock just winked at him in return.

John lay in bed for a few minutes, checking the weather and his email on his phone, before rolling out of bed. He thought about getting dressed, but figured he might be able to talk Sherlock into some payback before practice, and settled for just pulling on his dressing gown.

Which John was very grateful for when he walked into his kitchen and found a visitor waiting for him.

“Hello, John,” the man said. He was tall, much taller than John, wearing a fancy suit and a snide expression on his face.

“Can I help you?” John asked sarcastically. Okay, this was bizarre, but there didn’t seem to be any immediate need to panic. Right?

“That depends,” the man answered, casually twirling his umbrella. “I have a few questions concerning your relationship with Sherlock Holmes.”

“I might be wrong,” John retorted, voice hardening, “But I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be,” the man contradicted. “Did you know, John, that my brother has never stayed with a client a single day later than necessary? No, always onto the next job. Yet here he is, settling down… in more ways than one, it seems,” he smirked.

Ah. So _this_ was Sherlock’s brother.

“I worry about him, you see. Frankly, I do hope for all our sakes, that he is better off because of this partnership. But if not, I fear you may find yourself in an… unpleasant situation,” he finished with a menacing smile.

“That’s not going to happen,” John replied steadily.

“I trust we’ll see if you’re a man of your word, then,” the man countered. “I just want to stop by to share that with you. I would, however, prefer if you didn’t mention this conversation to Sherlock,” he added, turning to leave. “He might react rather dramatically. We have what you might call a difficult relationship.”

Before John could respond, he heard the front door bang open. “MYCROFT!” Sherlock cursed as he stormed into the room.

“Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft said easily. “How are you? I was just checking in on you and happened to meet your new… pal.”

“ _Out_ , Mycroft!” Sherlock growled scathingly. “You _cannot_ just barge in on my life unannounced; God knows you already have enough CCTV footage to keep you entertained. And I won’t have you interrogating my boyfriend. So kindly, do be on your way. I’m afraid if you don’t cooperate, I will shove your goddamned umbrella so far up your arse you’ll be forced to declare a national state of emergency.”

Mycroft looked positively appalled. “I’ll be in touch,” he said with a chilling look at Sherlock. “Good morning, Mr Watson,” he added, tipping his head toward John, before turning and leaving through the front door.

John stood in relative shock for a moment, staring after the strange man; when he turned back to face Sherlock, he saw he was still visibly irked.

“So,” John said lightly, trying to ease the remaining tension in the room. “That was your brother. The… government one? He seems… ah…”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock interrupted urgently.

“Ye- wait, what? No,” John stammered, feeling flustered. Did his brother often do that? “No, he essentially stopped by to give me the ‘If you break his heart, I’ll have you killed’ speech.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ah. Well, as I’ve told you, dull.”

John blushed. “You called me your boyfriend.”

Sherlock looked confused. “Well you are, aren’t you?”

John blush deepened as he a smile filled his face. “Yeah, I suppose I am. I just didn’t know what you’d want to call me.” He leaned in to press a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw. “I like boyfriend, though.”

Sherlock chuckled as John continued to suck kisses onto his jaw and neck. “I do too. Come along then, boyfriend. We’ve got work to do.”

John groaned as Sherlock pushed him back toward the bedroom to change. “I can’t tempt you back into bed?” he whined.

“Maybe later, if you’re good out there today,” Sherlock called back. John could hear the smirk in his voice.

~

Even though John was back to his typical training routine, Sherlock still found time to incorporate a few unorthodox exercises.

“Catch?” John laughed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Sherlock said, lightly tossing a baseball. “Pitchers have the best arms. And while yours have improved immensely, we need to keep that level of training up. Hence, catch.” The two of them spread out, one on each baseline. Sherlock threw the ball to John, who caught it easily. “Also,” Sherlock continued, “I can tell you’re worried about Germany next week, and I thought this would be a good stress release.”

John shook his head in amazement. Sherlock always knew. “Do you think I’m ready?” he asked, lobbing the ball back. This was going to be his first tournament since January; he couldn’t help but be a little nervous.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock replied confidently. “Do you feel ready?”

“Mentally, yes, I feel very ready.” John darted to the left a few feet to catch Sherlock’s throw. “I can visualize the match, me playing, everything I need to do.” He threw the ball again. Sherlock was right, this felt good. “I just hope my body cooperates.”

“Based on how your training has been going, you should be fine. You’ve worked hard for this, John. It’s time to get back out there, show them what you’re made of.” Sherlock gave John a small, proud smile as he made another catch. “I want everyone to know how good you really are. To see what I see.”

John laughed. “I think you might be biased.”

“Please,” Sherlock contradicted, returning the ball to John. “That was the objective, professional trainer speaking. Have some faith in the facts,” he scolded mockingly.

John just laughed again, pelting the ball over Sherlock’s head. It was only fair to make him run every once in a while too.

~

The flight to Germany went smoothly. They arrived two days before the tournament was set to begin, giving them time to adjust to the time difference and to get some practice in on the tournament court.

As much as Sherlock loved the game of tennis, and appreciated seeing it played well, he had never been overly fond of tournaments. They were hectic, with players, trainers, reporters, and spectators everywhere you turned. You could rarely get a moment alone, or let your guard down for a single second. Gossip moved quickly here; Sherlock had seen several players spend all their time at tournaments defending themselves against baseless rumours, leaving them distracted and frazzled by the time they stepped on the court. He did his best to avoid all that by… well, by avoiding conversation, really.

This was one of the main reasons he and John had decided not to make their relationship publicly known. John was already bound to be asked questions about Sherlock as his trainer – reporters always loved to dig for information about him through his clients, as he never revealed much himself – and they didn’t want to fuel that fire just yet. Mike agreed that it would be better to wait until John was reestablished on the World Tour, so he would have fewer distractions as he got back into the rhythm of tournaments.

Watching John practice hitting with Lestrade, Sherlock found himself wishing the tournament would just start already. John was obviously nervous, but trying hard to hide it; Lestrade was fooled easily enough, but Sherlock knew better. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t play well – in fact, a certain level of nerves typically helped players – but John just seemed slightly off. Distracted. _It’s a good thing Moriarty is in Portugal at the moment,_ he thought idly. Since their last encounter, John would bristle every time he heard his name; at least that was one less disturbance they’d have to worry about here.

It took a slightly longer warm-up than usual, but eventually John seemed to relax and get into his groove. Soon it was time for John’s first match.

“You’ll be fine,” Sherlock said as they made their way off the practice court. “But I’ll say good luck anyway. I’ll see you after the match.”

John smiled – he still had a slightly unsettled look about his eyes, but overall seemed much calmer than before. “See you then,” he replied evenly, turning toward the main court.

John didn’t like to talk much before matches, so Sherlock followed Lestrade up to their place in the stands early. They took their seats next to Mike, right in the front row. They had grown on Sherlock over the past few months, he had to admit; there were worse people to work with. And they seemed to have warmed up to him as well. As the stands began to fill, Sherlock kept them entertained with deductions of spectators and other coaches. Mike was trying to be polite, but Lestrade was clearly relishing hearing the details of his peers’ lives.

“You’re joking!” Lestrade laughed unabashedly. “He’s having an affair with _her?_ I thought he was dating a supermodel!”

“Which is why no one suspects anything,” Sherlock pointed out. “Been done many times before, but for some reason people always think they’ll be the one who won’t get caught at it. Preposterous.”

“Hate to interrupt, but the match is starting, chaps!” Mike interjected.

Sherlock leaned forward to watch as John took the court. He was nervous, in spite of himself; he _knew_ John was a better player than Zverev, his first opponent. His tension dissipated as the John won the first, then second game. The first set ended quickly – strong serve by John, the ball was volleyed back, John sent a backhand to Zverev’s left sideline. John won the set 6-1; he gave Sherlock a quick wave as he toweled off and switched sides. Sherlock blushed slightly, earning him some teasing from Lestrade. Fortunately, he didn’t have long to jest, as the second set began - John took that one 6-2, the entire match lasting just over an hour.

Sherlock relaxed back into his seat as John went to the net to shake hands with Zverev. _Onto the next round,_ ” he thought, starting to feel the excitement of the game once again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they are together! Hooray for cute tennis boyfriends!
> 
> The catch scene was inspired by a snippet from the "Venus and Serena" documentary.


	5. May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a tough time in his first tournament back, John and Sherlock focus on getting ready for the French Open.

“Good afternoon, Lindsay Davenport and Andrew Castle here, coming to you from the BMW Open in Munich. Our winner today was Martin Klizan of Slovakia, defeating Fabio Fognini of Italy with a final match score of 2-6, 6-1, 6-2. An exciting conclusion to this tournament, isn’t that right, Andrew?”

“Very true, Lindsay. We saw some great performances over the past few days, and today was no exception.”

“Now, with the French Open just three weeks away, we can start talking about who will be there and what we might expect. How do you think these players are looking?”

“Well, our two finalists should be feeling confident as they prepare to play at Roland Garros. Additionally, we’ve got John Watson back, which is very exciting. The former British No. 1 has been out for rotator cuff tendonitis over the past few months, but he’s back out here sooner than anyone expected. Word has it that he consulted with Sherlock Holmes to help with his recovery. Now, if you haven’t heard of Holmes before, don’t beat yourself up – he prefers to keep a low profile. But those in the know in the tennis community will recognize him as an individual expert who is frequently sought out by players and coaches to help with specific problems.”

“From what I’ve heard, Holmes’ name has been gaining prestige in the tennis community; several players I’ve talked to in the last two years report having consulted him for various issues. It seems like this guy’s the real deal.”

“Indeed he is, Lindsay. However, if anybody has been looking to consult with Holmes recently, they’ll have found that he has just become Watson’s full-time trainer. This is the first time Holmes has continued to work with a client after completing his initial job – he’s never been one to tie himself to any one player. Let’s hope Watson makes good use of this new change in his coaching lineup; I have to say, his playing was a bit subpar today.”

“I agree with you, Andrew; that wasn’t the John Watson we were seeing last year. I think we ought to cut him a little slack, though. It would have been a bit strange for him to win his first tournament back. As we can see from the results today, there’s a lot of competition out there right now. I think that says a lot of good about the current state of men’s tennis.”

“It certainly does.  In addition to what we’ve seen here, there were also exciting results from the Portugal Open. Jim Moriarty, who has been climbing the rankings since coming onto the pro circuit, was the winner, with Carlos Berlocq of Argentina as the runner-up. I think we’re going to have a lot to look forward to at this upcoming Grand Slam. And now, back to you in the studio, George.”

~

“Look, John, I know these weren’t the results that you were looking for, but for your first time back in a few months, you did well!” Mike insisted. He was hustling to keep up with John and Sherlock, who were quickly pushing through the crowd of players and reporters. John had just finished his sixth interview and was beyond ready to get the hell out of there.

“Don’t bullshit me, Mike. You sound like all those reporters – ‘Welcome back, John. Nice job out there, John. You’re clearly still recovering, but don’t worry, it was a good first time back, John,’” he imitated bitterly. “You and I both know my playing was shite today.”

“Come on, I wouldn’t say that,” Mike protested. “It wasn’t that bad. I’m just saying, don’t get too down about this.”

John let out an annoyed sigh. “I just want to get out of here.”

Sherlock, who had been silent throughout the exchange, hoisted John’s bag up higher on his shoulder and begin to push through the crowd more forcefully.

“You two go ahead to the hotel,” Mike said, once they made it outside the stadium. “I’ve got some business to finish up here, statements and whatnot.”

“Right,” John nodded. “We’ll see you back there, then”

“Head up,” Mike reminded him, turning back toward where the press had congregated.

The ride back to their hotel was blessedly a short one. John was sick of the questions and the cameras, of trying to pretend like he wasn’t upset with how the tournament went, of people looking at him like he played as well as he could have expected. He was better than what he did today.

By the time they got up to their room, John was so worked up he was practically vibrating.

“What do you need, John?” Sherlock asked, watching him carefully. It was the first time he had really spoken since they left the stadium.

John turned and crowded Sherlock, pressing himself against Sherlock’s body, fingers grasping at his clothes. “I need you to make me forget about this afternoon,” he growled. “I need you to make me forget about tennis. About any tournaments, about winning or losing. Fuck, I don’t even want to remember my name. I just want you.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock gasped, as John bit down on Sherlock’s neck, tongue flicking over the spot in the next moment.

The two of them fumbled with each other’s clothes, pulling them off hurriedly as they collapsed onto the bed. “Ah, yes,” John groaned as their skin finally made contact. Sherlock flipped them over so that he was lying on top of John, and promptly slithered down his body to take John in his mouth. “Oh, _fuck_ , that’s good,” John cried. Sherlock gave his cock a few powerful sucks before moving down further, licking around John’s balls. John’s vision went white for a moment; it was difficult not to come right then. “Fucking hell,” he moaned.

Sherlock moved back up John’s body to sit on John’s legs, their cocks coming back into contact. He leaned forward over John, thrusting slightly. “Are you forgetting?” Sherlock whispered in his ear. “I don’t want you to think about anything but this, John. Just you and me. The feel of my skin, my lips on you. I want this to be the only thing you know.” He moved forward again, so that when John’s pelvis rose up, his cock now encountered Sherlock’s arse. “I want you to fuck me, John Watson,” he continued, enunciating each word filthily. “Would that make you forget?”

John could only moan in response. He watched as Sherlock climbed over to retrieve the bottle of lube and carefully began to stretch himself. John was grateful Sherlock was taking control; at this point, his brain was far too wired and lust-addled. Sherlock was soon crawling back onto John, who closed his eyes and focused on breathing as Sherlock slicked him up.

“Wait until I tell you to move,” Sherlock said. John nodded, and then Sherlock began to sink onto his cock. It was glorious, too much and not enough all at once. John continued to breathe deeply, willing himself not to move until Sherlock said it was okay. When he opened his eyes again, the sight was almost too much – Sherlock, gorgeously flushed, sweaty, and full of John. Sherlock looked up, meeting his eyes. “Okay.”

And with that, John let himself go. He moved experimentally; the slide of himself inside Sherlock was marvelous. He pushed into him again and again, creating a rhythm, making them both cry out in pleasure. “You feel fantastic, so good, amazing, Sherlock,” John rambled.

“God, _yes_ , John,” Sherlock moaned, as John drove into him harder.

John came hard, suddenly, throwing his head back as his hips gave a few final erratic thrusts. The feeling of John’s orgasm brought on Sherlock’s, ejaculate spilling onto John’s stomach. Sherlock collapsed on top of John, the two of them spent and breathing hard. After a minute, Sherlock pushed off of John and crawled up to hold him in his arms.

“That was incredible,” John whispered, stroking Sherlock’s arm lightly. Sherlock just hummed in agreement and nuzzled closer. They lay there for a few minutes, taking in the pleasure of holding each other.

John was the one to eventually break the silence. “You made me forget,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“Until now,” Sherlock finished. He pressed a quick kiss to John’s forehead before sitting up against the wall behind them.

John sat up next to him. “Honestly, what was that today?” he asked, bewildered. “I’m better than that, I know I am.”

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock agreed. “It wasn’t a horrible performance, but definitely not your best work out there. You were stressing yourself out.”

It wasn’t a question. Sherlock knew without having to verify, as always. “I couldn’t relax,” John admitted. “I just wasn’t connecting with the ball like I usually do.”

“Your swings were jerkier than is typical of you. It seemed like your mind and your body were in different places – you were thinking too much about the mechanics, and how to adjust your shots. Am I right?”

John nodded.

“John, you need to trust yourself out there,” Sherlock said earnestly. “You’ve put in the work, made the necessary improvements. It’s in your muscle memory now. You _are_ good, even if it didn’t show today.”

“You know, other people might find that offensive, but that’s honestly the first thing anyone has said to me about the match that’s made me feel better,” John chuckled. “Thank you.”

“Just being logical, John,” Sherlock stated wryly.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you tell someone to think _less,_ ” John pointed out, poking him in the ribs.

“Yes, well, don’t you think I know by now what works best for you?” Sherlock countered. “That is my _job,_ after all.”

“True.” John let out an exasperated laugh. “I just can’t believe I couldn’t even make it past quarterfinals in a bloody 250 tournament!” He shook his head. “I mean, after everything we’ve done, all that training…”

“I know. But you said it yourself - it’s just a 250. I won’t let you get hung up on this,” Sherlock said firmly. “We’ll be at the French Open in three weeks, and it’s the perfect opportunity to get yourself back in the game, on your terms. But if you want to do well there, we have to just keep moving forward. You have to let today go and move on.”

John nodded. “You’re right. Three weeks, then.” He leaned in to rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I do want to be taken seriously again. Of course I do. But I also want everyone to see what you’ve done for me. I want them to know how amazing you are at what you do.”

Sherlock kissed the top of his head. “I don’t care about that, though. As long as people see you for how good you really are, I’ll be happy.”

John smiled, feeling truly hopeful for the first time all day. “I guess we had better get to work, then. It sounds like we’ve got an awful lot to prove.”

Sherlock beamed back at him. “Just the two of us against the rest of the world,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss him properly.

~

Once they returned from Germany, John reached a whole new level of focus. He and Sherlock were hitting it hard on the courts every day, preparing for endless possibilities. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so fiercely dedicated. However, he was trying not to lose himself in the game completely. He had heard stories of other players ridding their life of everything but tennis while preparing for big tournaments, and while he admired their commitment, John knew he would go mad if he did that. And one of the best ways to stay grounded, he found, was to take care of Sherlock.

If John was working hard, it seemed Sherlock was doing twice as much. He would spend hours in his mind palace at a time, analyzing every shot, every move, every strategy, looking for any possible way to help John’s game. And that was in addition to the hours spent with John on the court and in the gym. He seemed to be in more danger of losing himself in the game than John was, and he wasn’t even competing. John wasn’t sure how Sherlock managed to handle the strain he placed upon himself, but made it his responsibility to make sure Sherlock ate regularly and slept for at least a few hours each night.

This had been going on for a week when the stress finally got to John. They were halfway through hitting practice when dark clouds were suddenly upon them. John, Greg, and Sherlock moved under the tent next to the court as the rain drops began to fall.

“Bugger,” Sherlock griped. “Well, I suppose we could have our lunch break now, until this blows over.”

“I’ll run and get the food,” Greg volunteered quickly. He may get along with Sherlock better than most, but he was still hesitant to deal with him in a bad mood.

John watched as Greg took off for their car where they had left their lunch. He felt an unexpected, childlike wave of hysteria wash over him as he watched the rain pound down onto the court. “That looks fun,” he blurted.

Sherlock looked at him questioningly, frown deepening. _He looks stormier than_ _the bloody rainstorm itself,_ John thought. A giggle escaped before he could stop himself, and then he was done for. Sherlock stared at him, bewildered, as John clutched at one of the poles supporting the tent, trying to keep himself upright through his laughter.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking almost offended. “What the hell is so funny?”

“You are,” John gasped out, and with that, he took hold of Sherlock’s wrist and yanked him out into the rain.

“What the-”

“You need to lighten up!” John cried, grasping Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Forget about the match for a second. Come play in the rain with me.” And with that, John was running, from sideline to net to baseline, cheering as he went. “Woooo!” he hollered, jumping into a small puddle. “Look at the rain, Sherlock! There’s so fucking much of it! Isn’t it brilliant?!” He circled back to Sherlock, who was staring at him as though he was truly insane. John pulled him forward by his t-shirt and kissed him thoroughly.

Sherlock froze at first, but quickly melted into the kiss. John could feel the tension rolling off of him as Sherlock kissed him back earnestly. When they broke apart to take a breath, Sherlock gripped his hands tightly. “You are mad, John Watson,” he laughed, spinning them around. “Completely, wonderfully mad.”

 “Bloody hell, I leave alone for _five minutes,_ and you idiots decide it’d be a swell day to get hypothermia!” Greg yelled from the tent, lunch bags in one hand and a large umbrella in the other.

Releasing each other, they joined Greg back underneath the tent. “That’s enough work for the day,” Sherlock declared, ruffling his hair, which the rain had caused to hang down unevenly. “It’s been a long week; we all could do with some rest.”

“Oh, God, _agreed,_ ” Greg groaned gratefully.

By the time they got home, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving John shivering. “Let’s get you warmed up,” Sherlock chuckled, turning on the shower.

The two of them quickly stripped out of their wet clothes and hopped under the hot water; John got goose bumps from the rapid change in temperature. Sherlock began rubbing John’s arms in an effort to warm his skin. “That was ridiculous,” he said, a pure, open smile on his face. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

John beamed back at him. “You needed to relax a bit. Do something a little bit crazy.” He reached up, massaging shampoo into Sherlock’s scalp.

Sherlock let his eyes fall shut until John was done, then turned around to step under the spray. “I just couldn’t get myself to stop working,” he admitted. “I don’t want to fail you.”

John pressed a light kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “You couldn’t.”

~

Since their rained out practice, Sherlock and John had found a better balance between working hard on the court and relaxing off it. It seemed to be working well; neither of them were on the verge of insanity, but were still extremely committed to making sure John was ready for Paris, now only a week away. They had just finished a tough scrimmage; Sherlock had beaten him, but only just. “I know your strengths and weaknesses better than any of your opponents could hope to, so don’t worry,” Sherlock had reminded him. Not that he needed to – he could see John’s confidence growing with each day.

“Agh, Sherlock! I can’t hit these notes if you’re torturing me,” John complained. He was lying on his stomach while Sherlock massaged his legs, and was trying to distract himself with karaoke (they had made some more investments concerning their Wii system).

“It’s necessary,” Sherlock replied, digging into a knot in John’s calf. “And you barely hit them when you’re not in pain. My stopping wouldn’t make you sound like The Temptations.”

“Hey, you’re getting better!” John exclaimed. Before this, Sherlock had absolutely no knowledge of Motown music. He didn’t feel strongly about it one way or another, but John loved it, so he figured he could at least learn a little bit.

“You need to stretch your legs more before you play,” Sherlock remarked loudly, trying to avoid being drowned out by John’s chorus of “My Girl.”

“And you need to be more supportive of my musical endeavors,” John reprimanded teasingly. “I can’t play tennis forever, you know. I’ll need to figure out something else to do after I retire.”

“And you’re thinking singing sensation is the way to go?” Sherlock asked, amused.

“You never know,” John shrugged with mock seriousness. “Though if it’s that bad, maybe I’ll have to stick with tennis. Hell, maybe we’ll play doubles someday, after I’m too old for singles. Even if it’s just as amateurs at a club somewhere.”

Sherlock moved up John’s legs to massage his hamstrings. “But of course,” he agreed. “Even when we’re going gray, we’ll still kick arse. Imagine all the free equipment we’ll win from the pro shop.”

John’s body shook with laughter. “We’ll clear out their merchandise in a year, I’m calling it.”

~

Before they knew it, they were boarding a plane for Paris. The city was buzzing with excitement in preparation for one of tennis’ largest tournaments. John never got tired of this – he loved everyone bustling about, from all over the world, brought together by the sport he loved. He was trying not to let it distract him on the court, though. He only had a few practice times before his first match on Day 2, and was trying to make the most of them. Sherlock was only having him practice a few different shots each time; it was just one of the strategies they had going into the tournament. Another was simply to avoid distractions from other players. They both knew this was the time when players started to get in each others’ heads, and wanted to avoid as much of that as possible.

Even though John was prepared for it, he still found himself getting slightly worked up when he bumped into Moriarty the day before the matches started. He was by himself, about to leave after a charity event, when he suddenly found himself cornered.

“So I hear you’re still working with Holmes,” Moriarty stated, his posture laid-back but his voice biting. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, haven’t you?”

“What, by keeping him on as a part of my coaching team?” John shot back, head cocked to one side. “Well, if you think that’s the most of my intentions, you’ve got another thing coming. For example, I’d also like to do well here, believe it or not.”

“You know this is so much more than tennis, John.” Moriarty said simply, his voice dropping deeper as he leered at John.

John’s eyes narrowed; he looked calm, but his mind was racing. _Does he know we’re together?_ He thought about what Sherlock had said about Moriarty still being bitter about being turned down. He wouldn’t put it past him to try to exact revenge in some way – he was a dramatic enough prick for it. _Well he’s not getting between us,_ he thought fiercely. “Maybe it is,” John returned evenly. “But it’s similar enough. Just like in tennis, having enough fancy tricks won’t always be enough to win.” With that, he stepped around Moriarty and quickly hailed a cab back to his hotel. He smirked a little to himself on the ride back; he may not be on Sherlock’s level when it came to witty comebacks, but he had to admit, he had handled that minor disturbance pretty well.

When he got back to the hotel, he found Sherlock chatting amiably with another visitor – not one he recognized this time.

“Ah, John, you’re back!” Sherlock sprang up and ushered him inside. “John, this is Martha Hudson. She’s an old friend of mine, and recently started designing for Head. When I heard this, I called her up and asked her to design some new uniforms for you.”

“Lovely to meet you, John,” the older woman said, firmly shaking his hand. “Sherlock’s told me so much about you. I must say, he helped me get signed at Head, the dear. I was so glad when I found out they endorse you, that way I could make something special for you!”

John was surprised, to say the least. “Pleasure to meet you, as well,” he said, a bit stunned. “You- you designed special uniforms for me?”

“Indeed I did! And John, I don’t mean to flatter myself right off, but these are going to look fabulous on you. Now go on, get changed and come show us! I want to see the fruits of my labor before the rest of the world.” She laughed, passing him a garment bag.

John went back into the bedroom to change. First he tried on a navy and white uniform, the jersey and shorts bearing a jagged line design. “Blue and white for Britain,” Mrs. Hudson declared.

“What about red?” Sherlock pointed out.

“Oh yes, do try on the red one next!” Mrs. Hudson clapped.

Next, John found a white jersey with a red design, and red shorts. John noticed Sherlock blushing when John came out, his eyes transfixed on John’s lower half. _This one’s a keeper, then,_ he thought. John then came out wearing an army green jersey and white shorts. He admired the green against his skin tone; it seemed to suit him. The last uniform John pulled out was comprised of an icy blue shirt and black shorts. When he walked out to where Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were waiting, he realized that the jersey matched the color of Sherlock’s eyes. It was as though Sherlock was marking his claim on John for the world to see - via his tournament clothing. _Sentimental sod,_ he thought affectionately.

~

Day 1 came and went, with victories and losses both expected and not. John caught a little of the tournament while making his final preparations before his first round. Day 2 was soon upon them; after a rain delay, it was time for John’s first match of the tournament. He was up against Robby Ginepri, an American player. He made eye contact with Sherlock as he walked around the court to get into position. Sherlock met his gaze, head bowing slightly - _you got this._ When he was given the okay, John took a deep breath, bounced the ball four times, and served. Ginepri sent him a forehand shot; John sent one back. Point. “Fifteen-love,” the umpire called. John nodded to himself, preparing to serve again. _Just like that._ The games went on until John served out his first set 6-0. _Not a bad start, Watson._ The next two sets, which John won 6-3 and 6-0, were over almost as quickly. Just like that, and he was on to the second round.

“How were you feeling out on the court today, and what’s your goal for this time back at Roland Garros?” a French reporter asked him during the post-match press conference.

“I’m feeling good. It’s good to be back here,” John replied easily. “I just went out there, tried to relax, and do what I needed to do.”

After his first match, the tournament started to fly by. Time only seemed to slow down during each game – John was extremely focused, reading his opponent’s shots and trying to best counter them. But once the match was over, it felt like it had gone by in a flash.

Round 2 came on Day 5, against Dominic Theim of Austria. He was a good player, and was leading the first set for a while. But he’s young, only 20 years old. It showed on the court in a few unforced errors – rookie mistakes, really - that John smoothly took advantage of. John won 6-3, 6-2, 6-2, but it wasn’t an easy match. He made sure to tell Dominic. “You were tough out there, mate,” he said, shaking his hand at the net. “Keep going on this track and you’ve got a great ten years ahead of you.”

At the press conference, a Spanish reporter asked him, “Do you feel like you are an underdog in this tournament?”

 _Jesus, all I have to do to be an underdog is make it past 2R?_ Instead of voicing his initial thought, he said, “I feel like some people may see me that way, yeah. But I don’t particularly feel like one myself. It’s not like I’m brand new or anything – I’ve been here before, and I’ve done well in Grand Slams before. I’m just trying to do better than the last time I was here. Always looking to improve,” he added with a media-friendly smile.

Day 7 brought Round 3, played against Leonardo Mayer of Argentina. The final score was 2-6, 7-5, 6-3, 6-2, with John advancing to the next round. Many were surprised by this win, as he played more return games than service; John, however, hadn’t let that shake his confidence. He and Sherlock had prepared for that.

“There seem to be a lot of upsets happening at this year’s tournament,” an American reporter stated afterward. “Both of the Williams sisters have been knocked out by now, along with Dimitrov and Ferrer. Do you have any thoughts about why there seem to be so many upsets this year already?”

John shrugged. “There’s a lot of competition out there. Everyone has been working hard to get here; it’s not a question about that. There are too many factors contributing to be able to simply name one thing as a reason. I’m guessing we’ll probably see some more upsets in the coming week.”

“John, have you been tempted at all by the French bakeries and wine during your stay here?” a French reporter chimed in, smiling brightly.

“A bit, yeah,” he told her, laughing. “I’m a pastry guy, and those bakeries smell incredible. I have people who keep me in line though, thankfully – I probably wouldn’t do too well out there if I ate half of the bakery the day before.”

John liked to watch some of the matches on the days he wasn’t playing – sometimes his whole team joined him, sometimes just Sherlock. John thought himself very lucky to be able to work with such a great group. Of course, he was especially thankful for Sherlock. It was invaluable having him constantly there to steady him throughout the day, and to decompress with at night.

“Alright, genius,” John chucked, snuggling into Sherlock’s arms on the night of his 3R win. “How’re we looking for the next round?”

“Smashing,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of John’s head. “Let’s go get ‘em. Show them the real John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew Castle and Lindsay Davenport actually are tennis commentators for the BBC. Another fun fact: the players in the final, as well as the score, are the true results from the BMW Open this year. The rainy practice scene, as well as the karaoke scene, were inspired by clips from "Venus and Serena." And because of Martin Freeman's love for it, I just had to throw some Motown in there.
> 
> Thank you so much, all of you who have been reading! The final chapter should be up within the week!


	6. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exciting conclusion to the French Open!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how late this is - I was out of town for a week, so I didn't have much time to write for a while there. :3 Hope it's worth the wait!

By 4R, people were paying more attention to John. The crowd was significantly larger than it had been for his previous matches. Mike had said the buzz about him was really starting to go around – it seemed many were beginning to see him as a potential finalist.

“Everyone loves an underdog,” Mike had told him.

“I still have a few tough rounds to make it through, though,” John reminded him. “No need to get all excited about that yet.”

His chances were looking up when Day 9 came, though. Federer had been knocked out the day before, only adding to the list of upsets. John was feeling good when it was time to play Dusan Lajovic of Serbia. It was a faster match than he was expecting – he swept the sets 6-3, 6-2, 6-2.

He sat down for a televised interview after with Lindsay Davenport afterward. He was wearing one of his new uniforms – the one with the red shorts Sherlock liked. He idly hoped the camera would capture them in the wide shots.

“Nice to see you again, John,” Lindsay said with a smile.

“You too, Lindsay.”

“Now, this is your second tournament back after your injury. First off, how’s that shoulder holding up?”

John smiled. “It’s totally fine. I’m feeling great, thanks.” He loved that he could finally give that answer. So much better than ‘indefinitely in recovery.’

“Good to hear!” Lindsay cheered. “Next, how have you approached this tournament differently than your last one? I know you weren’t exactly pleased with your results in Munich.”

“Not really, no – I was hoping to do much better there. But it wasn’t worth getting hung up on, d’you know what I mean? I just tried to take the loss in a positive way. It just made me that much more focused about getting ready for this.”

“And that focus has been showing! You’ve been looking great out there. You had a quick victory today, ending the match with that signature drop shot of yours. What is it about that shot you like so much?”

John licked his lips as he thought; Sherlock had told him it was one of his ‘interview’ habits. “Well, I suppose because it’s sneaky, but not flashy. It’s efficient - it gets the job done.” John shrugged. “And it just feels natural to me after all this time. I know when to use it, when not to.”

Lindsay nodded along with him. “And it sure shows out there! Also, since the last time we’ve spoken, you’ve had a bit of a change in your coaching staff with the addition of Sherlock Holmes. I know you’ve only been working with him for a few months now – how has that been, compared to other coaches? And what would you say is the biggest element Sherlock’s introduced to your game?”

John thought about how to word his answer to that one, not wanting to say too much; now was not the time to break the news of their relationship. “Uh, it’s been great so far, actually. He’s helped me get my shoulder back in gear, so that’s one thing. And he’s helped me clean up other elements of my game as well – adjusting angles, that sort of thing.” He could feel the grin growing on his face as he spoke. “He’s a brilliant trainer and coach, and he’s always been very open and honest with me about training or whatever, which helps us work together well, I think.”

“It’s always good to find a coach that you really click with.” Lindsay reached out to shake his hand. “Well, it was great talking to you, John – and good luck to you in the quarter finals!”

When John returned to the hotel, he found Sherlock lounging on the couch, watching John’s interview on their television.

“How obvious was I?” he asked, sitting on the arm of the sofa by Sherlock’s feet.

“Not bad,” Sherlock smirked. “Transparent to those who know, of course, but nothing you said would raise the suspicions of anyone else.”

“Then Mike should be pleased, at least.” John stood back up, moving to their kitchenette to make some tea. “Has the Berdych – Moriarty match finished yet?”

“Mhmm.” John looked over when Sherlock didn’t continue, only to find him in this thinking pose, hands pressed together under his chin. Which could only mean one thing.

“So,” John prodded. “Quarter finals. Me… against Moriarty.”

“You’ll be fine.” John could tell from Sherlock’s dismissive tone that he was rolling his eyes.

Well, at least Sherlock was feeling at ease, because John certainly wasn’t. “I was hoping he wouldn’t still be in at this point,” he said impassively, placing his focus on filling the mugs before him instead of on the impending match. 

“I was expecting it,” Sherlock’s voice came evenly from across the room. “But no need to worry, as you’re about to knock him out.”

Coming back to the sofa, John placed one mug in Sherlock’s hands. “How can you be so sure?” he asked, skeptical.

Sherlock lifted his feet, giving John room to sit, before placing them in John’s lap. “John, look at me.” John looked up to lock eyes with Sherlock. “Because I know you,” he said seriously. “I know how you play, and I know how he plays, and I know as long as you keep him out of your head you’ll dominate him out there.”

John hoped Sherlock was right.

~

John woke on Day 11 – the day of his match against Moriarty – with a churning stomach. It didn’t go away as he warmed up, either. This wasn’t nerves, not really – it was determination. John was sick and tired of Moriarty’s tricks and mind games. He just wanted to beat him, and he wasn’t going to feel better until he did.  

He warmed up with Sherlock and Greg as usual, blessedly without interruption. When it was time to head to the main court, Sherlock pulled him aside. “Remember what I told you,” he said quietly. “Moriarty will try to mess with your head, and don’t be surprised if he tries to drag me into it. Just ignore him and play your game.”

John was met with loud applause when he entered the court and made his way over to the umpire. He ignored the smirk Moriarty gave him upon winning the coin toss; John could handle more return games. No problem. He did his best to block out Moriarty’s mutterings, though he thought he heard Sherlock’s name as he turned to head back to his side. _It doesn’t matter,_ he told himself, resisting the urge to look back.

The first set was tough. Moriarty was leading, and clearly didn’t find this surprising. He emitted smugness with every swing, and John hated it. He played hard, determination burning inside him, but it took him a few games to figure out Moriarty’s pace and strategy. By the second set, though, he was ready to attack. His first serve resulted in an ace – then his next, and his next. When the ump called out “forty – love” and John took the game point as easily as the rest, Moriarty was visibly shaken.

They were called to switch sides after the second set. John took the small break to towel off and grab a quick drink from one of the ball boys. They each had one set to their name – now John just had to keep his momentum going. Moriarty gave him a malicious look as they passed each other. “This has been fun, John, but the flirting’s over now,” he taunted.

“Yes, it is,” John agreed, jaw clenching as he met his gaze.

Moriarty was pulling out all the stops now – or was trying to, anyway. He forced three errors in a row during the third set, but John managed to win the break point after a few expertly timed shots on his part. Moriarty was changing tactics now that the mind games weren’t working for him, but John wasn’t about to lose this. It was an exhausting set, but John pulled out the win before the need for extra games.

Once they got to the fourth set, John had had enough of Moriarty’s games. He felt himself slip even deeper into the game, sending the ball back over the net mercilessly, again and again. He didn’t notice that the match was over until he saw Moriarty hurl his racquet to the ground angrily. He looked over to the scoreboard – final score: 3-6, 6-2, 6-4, 6-1. John punched the air with excitement while the crowd cheered - he was on to the semis. He gave Moriarty a sardonic smile as he shook his hand at the net. “Better luck next time,” he simpered – and felt another rush of satisfaction when Moriarty stalked away without response. He normally wasn’t one to be rude to opponents, especially after beating them, but he felt no remorse today. The prick had it coming.

“Good match,” Sherlock congratulated him, as he came to escort John out of the stadium.

“You like that?” John asked, his voice dropping as he gave Sherlock a knowing look.

Sherlock shrugged. “Of course. You won.”

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock could try to play it off as though he was no more pleased about John defeating Moriarty than he would be any other player, but John knew better.

Indeed, the rather fantastic blowjob he gave John that night was indication enough.

~

The rest of the tournament was flying by. Day 13 brought the semifinals, in which John upset Rafael Nadal in an exciting 6-4, 3-6, 6-2, 6-3 match. John could hardly believe it – Rafa was the favourite to win, and John had just beaten him to move on to the finals. Though support for John had been steadily increasing throughout the tournament, most considered the match’s outcome a shocking one.

“John, congratulations on what is being called one of the biggest upsets of the tournament,” an Italian reporter said to him during the day’s press conference. “Rafa is, of course, a veteran of this tournament – what did he say to you at the net afterward?”

“Thank you. He said that if I continue to play like that, I can win the tournament. I told him I will try,” he added with a chuckle. Nadal had been a fierce competitor, and although understandably upset about his loss, was very gracious to John afterward.

“Was there a moment in the match when you realized you had a great chance here?” a British announcer asked.

“Yeah, there was, in the last games,” John nodded. “I knew I had an opportunity, and that if I kept playing the way I had been, I could win.”

“Some other players who have faced Rafa recently said that they stepped on the court not believing that they could win,” an American chimed in. “Was that the case for you at all?”

“No, I believed I could do it,” John answered, idly rubbing his fingers along his chin. “I mean, I knew I’d have to play extremely well, but I knew I had a chance. I didn’t let myself fixate on the fact I was playing an 8-time champion here. I just focused on going out and playing my game.”

~

Before they knew it, Day 15 was upon them. Sherlock barely slept the night before the final match. He wanted to pace, maybe even sneak a cigarette, but knew John slept better with him in the bed. So he lay awake, lost in his mind palace, analyzing motions and swings and hits and scenarios until his nerves eventually retreated. He hadn’t anticipated this – there was no logic to being nervous and he knew it. Sure, a small dose could sometimes give players the adrenaline kick they need, but Sherlock wasn’t playing. He had done all the work with John he could, but during the match, he would be as useful as any spectator. It was out of his control.

And yet, he couldn’t completely rid himself of his anxiety. He managed to keep it at bay as he and John warmed up, focusing on the task at hand. _It’s just like any other match,_ he told himself. If he was calm, it was more likely John would be too.

Actually, John seemed to be fairly in control of himself. He was anxious, clearly, but not overwhelmingly so. He looked strong and confident as he prepared to take the court, jumping in place and swinging his arms to keep the blood pumping. After a minute, he stopped and walked back to where Sherlock was waiting.

“Any last minute guidance, coach?” he asked. There was tension in his face, but he was forcing himself to relax. That was good.

“You remember the plan for when you serve and receive?” Sherlock asked urgently. “And what to do if he forces errors? And how he winds up when he’s about to blast down the sideline? And-”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, I know my strategies. I just meant – I could use a little encouragement,” he finished hesitantly.

“Oh. Of course.” Sherlock gripped John’s shoulder and rubbed it in a way he hoped was reassuring. “Play hard and enjoy this,” he said fervently, looking deep into John’s eyes. “You’ve worked hard, and you deserve to be here. You’re ready, so just go out there and take what’s yours.”

A small smile spread across John’s face. He nodded to himself, then looked back up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Thank you,” he said softly, before stepping back to clap Sherlock on the back. “Catch you later,” he grinned, jumping in place once more.

Sherlock made his way to his place in the stands, right up front. His nerves were dissipating once again. John was prepared for this, and could certainly win. And besides the outcome of the match, there wouldn’t be any surprises. This was tennis. And Sherlock knew tennis better than anyone.

No sooner had he calmed himself when he arrived at his place in the stands. He saw Lestrade and Stamford had already taken their seats, and were chatting amiably to a woman in a sundress and a large hat.

“Oh, here he is!” Mike called, motioning him in to join them. He gestured to the woman beside him. “Sherlock, this is Charlotte, John’s mother.”

And just like that, Sherlock’s anxiety spiked right back up. He had enough on his mind today; the last thing he was expecting was to meet his, for all intents and purposes, mother-in law. His mind halted for a moment, and then every part of it was shouting at him instantaneously. _It makes sense his mother would come, he’s playing in the finals for God’s sake,_ the rational voice drawled. _Still, John could have mentioned this!_ another voice cried back, panicked. His eyes raked over the woman as she turned to face him. _Short hair, John’s smile. Present in her bag – feels guilty about not seeing John play more. Wearing more makeup than usual – looking to make a good impression, then._

“Oh, I have been just dying to meet you!” Charlotte cried with delight. “John says the most wonderful things about you.”

 _Wait, John talked to his mother about him? About them? How much did he…?_ Sherlock took him her warm smile, the affection in her eyes – _She definitely knows, then._

“Oh, that’s… that’s good,” he finished lamely. _Pull yourself together_ , his mind shouted at him. “It’s lovely to meet you as well,” he added, doing his best to sound charming and polite and not like an arsehole. “I’m so glad you could make it out; John will be absolutely thrilled.” He reached out his hand.

Charlotte ignored his outstretched hand and pulled him into a hug instead. “My boy’s back in the final, there was no way I would miss it!”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Lestrade said then, leaning out of his seat in their direction. “But they’re doing the coin toss!”

Charlotte released Sherlock and they quickly sat, their eyes on the umpire and players.

“Watson calls tails… and tails it is!” Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. At least _something_ was going according to plan today. “And he chooses receive!” the announcer’s voice boomed.

As expected, mutters of surprise could be heard throughout the crowd. “Is that usual for John?” Charlotte asked, turning to Sherlock with confusion.

Lestrade, who had chose that moment to take a swig from his bottle of water, choked. Sherlock glared at him before addressing Mrs Watson. “No, but it’s what we want. It’s the first step to executing a meticulously planned strategy, especially designed to beat Djokovic.”

“Really?” she gaped at him, perplexed. “How can you even come up with something like that?”

Sherlock exhaled noisily. He didn’t want John’s mother to hate him, but he wasn’t sure he could bear this right now. Despite watching John play for years, she clearly didn’t have more than a novel’s grasp on the game of tennis; it was almost painful watching her formulate questions.

“Why don’t you sit by me, Charlotte? Sherlock’s not much fun for commentary during these things,” Lestrade said, picking up on Sherlock’s agitation.

“Oh, thank you, Greg,” she chirped, standing to switch seats with him.

 _Greg._ Right. “So we’re even now?” he muttered, sitting down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, barely paying attention to him. The first game was about to start. Sherlock leaned forward in anticipation as Djokovic prepared for his first serve and forced himself to breath. John was in control, he reminded himself. Things were going according to plan. Now all John had to do was play some of the best tennis of his life.

~

When they were three sets into the match, John knew the end was near. He had lost the first set 3-6, then won the next two 7-5 and 6-2. He just had to hold on for one more set. Djokovic wasn’t making it easy for him; he was fighting back aggressively, sending John shots that had him running back and forth more than any opponent he had faced this tournament. But John wasn’t going to let that get the best of him – especially not after all the sprints Sherlock made him do. Digging deeper, he pushed himself to get to the ball quicker, sending it down Djokovic’s sideline. _Point_. He was getting closer. The pace had noticeably picked up during this set – John would win one game, then Novak, back and forth, until the set score was 5-4.

John took a deep breath as he bounced the ball his usual four times and served. Djokovic sent a forehand; John hit one back, just out of his reach. _Point_. The volleys continued, the two of them sending the ball over the net, reading each other’s moves and reacting accordingly. Djokovic got the better of John with a lob, but then was caught off guard by a powerful backhand in the next rally. Soon they were at the match point – John drove a long serve down the sideline on his left. Djokoic ran for it, and just managed to send it back over the net. John wound up as if he was planning a similar shot, but when the ball got to him, he hit it softly – a surprise drop shot. Djokovic dashed forward, but it was too late. The ball bounced gently on the clay, just past the net, and spun out to bounce toward the opposite sideline. 

John sank to his knees as the crowd exploded into cheers. _He had won._

He felt tears stinging his eyes as he got back to his feet and looked around, applause loud in his ears. He made his way to the net to shake hands first with Novak, then the umpire. And then he was running again, up into the stands, propelling himself up to where his team was waiting. As soon as he saw Sherlock, his eyes didn’t leave him. John quickly made his way over and immediately pulled him into a tight hug, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock seemed frozen with shock at first, but quickly returned the embrace. “You did it!” Sherlock exclaimed, excitement and pride evident in his voice. John pulled his head back to see the brilliant smile on his coach’s – and boyfriend’s - face.

John shook his head, the tears starting to escape. “We did it,” he corrected, running his hand along the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Johnny boy! Get over here, champ!” Greg called from a few seats down. Releasing Sherlock, John wiped his eyes and moved down the row to the rest of his entourage. There were hugs from Mike and Greg, and kisses from his mother, who was openly weeping. John started to make his way back to Sherlock, only to be pushed back down in the direction of the stairs. “Get down there, you’ve got a trophy to accept!” Sherlock shouted, beaming at him.

John bounded back down to the court and stood on the sideline as Novak accepted his finalist trophy. John couldn’t register what he was saying, his own mind buzzing, just trying to comprehend the single fact the _he had just won the French Open_.

When he heard his own name called, he made his way up to the presenters – the French president and a former champion. Both hugged him, and suddenly John found himself holding the winner’s trophy. Giddily, he kissed it and raised it above his head, making the crowd go wild.

All of a sudden there was a microphone in his face. _Right. Victory speech_. “God, wow,” John blurted, mind reeling. _Breathe,_ he reminded himself _._ “Um, this is a very emotional win for me. I wasn’t sure I would ever get back to this level of tennis again, so being here is absolutely incredible,” he said, wiping a stray tear from his cheek before continuing. “First, I have to congratulate Novak on a tremendous match.” John paused while the crowd applauded his opponent once again; looking around the stadium, he felt his gaze slip back to where his biggest supporters were sitting. “Ah, I want to thank my mum, who’s here, for always sticking by me. And my brilliant team – Mike, Greg, you guys are irreplaceable – and especially Sherlock, who’s been my rock in all things through this journey,” John continued, his grin getting impossibly bigger. “And I want to thank the fans, too, for their enduring support through the years. I’m very chuffed, thanks for welcoming me back to play at one of my favourite places in the world.” John lifted his trophy once more, the cheers and applause positively deafening. He felt like he was on top of the world.

~

“Looks like the cat’s out of the bag, then!” Mike called, hurrying up to John in the locker room. “Twitter is blowing up – if people aren’t talking about you winning, they’re speculating about your apparent relationship with Sherlock.”

“Yeah, that just sort of happened,” John said sheepishly. He had no regrets about what he said or did – honestly, what could they have expected? -  but he did feel a little bad for not giving Mike any warning.

“John, don’t sweat it,” Mike shaking his head. “I had a feeling you’d probably accidentally go public if you won. I’ve already got some statements prepared.”

“You’re a saint,” John said gratefully, flipping through the papers Mike passed him. “What did Sherlock have to say about all this?”

Mike laughed. “He was shocked. He certainly wasn’t expecting you to squeeze the daylights out of him in front of everyone. But he said he’s completely fine with you two going public, as long as it’s what you want.”

“Well, like you said, I kind of already took that step. Just have to attend to the aftermath now.” John exhaled noisily before turning back to face Mike. “What should we be expecting? Do you think there’ll be backlash?”

“A bit, surely – but that’s nothing new. You’ll never have everyone on your side, no matter who you are,” Mike stated. “Despite the lack of many out players, most people in this sport are pretty open-minded. At least you don’t have any intolerant teammates to worry about,” he added. “Realistically, you’ll probably get a few less endorsements than other Gland Slam winners. But you’ll undoubtedly pick some up from LGBTQ-friendly groups. And Head won’t drop you, you’ve been with them since you went pro.” Mike clapped him on the back. “You’re going to be just fine.”

John let out another deep breath and rolled his shoulders back. “I guess I better get in there, then.”

Mike nodded. “They’re ready for you. It should be fine, but good luck, mate. Remember, you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to.”

After looking through Mike’s statements one more time, John walked down the hall and pushed open the door to the press room. Everyone went silent as he took his seat and placed his trophy on the table next to him - and then the chatter began all at once.

“Alright, alright, one at a time,” John said, clearing his throat.

“Congratulations on your win, John,” a British reporter spoke up. “Now, I just have to ask – you and Sherlock Holmes? It’s been stated he works as a part of your coaching staff, but based on your display after the match, you two seem to have a more intimate partnership than we might have guessed. It that, in fact, true?”

“Oh, shit, was it that obvious?” John asked with mock seriousness, earning him laughs amongst the small crowd. “Yes, Sherlock and I are in a relationship.” He couldn’t help but smile as he said it.

“Have you been telling people he was your personal trainer to cover up your relationship?” a French spokesman inquired.

John let out an incredulous snort. “No, Sherlock really is part of my coaching staff. He has been since February. We haven’t been trying to cover up anything; we haven’t even been together that long.”

“How do you and Mr Holmes balance your relationship off court with all the training you have to do?” a Spanish woman asked.

“Uh, the same as any other player, I’d imagine,” John replied. Did that sound rude? He didn’t really care. He was tired and running on adrenaline at this point, and while that would keep him going for a while, their questions weren’t doing much to keep him engaged. “We have a normal relationship, we just also happen to work together. So it’s like any other good player-coach partnership while we’re working.”

“John, how have the rest of your staff adjusted in the face of your relationship with Mr Holmes?” an American reporter piped up.

John shook his head slightly. “You guys do know a tennis match just happened, right?” he asked with a dubious chuckle. “I mean, I’m personally thrilled about my love life, but it’s hardly the most exciting topic of discussion at the moment.”

There was more laughter throughout the press room. “Apologies,” the man said, noticeably blushing. “It was an exhilarating match to watch. What would you say was the most crucial moment for you on the court in terms of securing your victory?”

Thankfully, the rest of the questions shifted focus to the match – thoughts on his and Djokovic’s performances, his plans for upcoming tournaments, etc. John relaxed as the press conference went on, the conversation treading in the familiar territory of his beloved sport. His left hand remained on the trophy for its duration – he was rather grateful for the physical proof that, no, this was not a dream.

~

To say it was a surreal day would be the understatement of the year. John lost count of the congratulations he received from spectators, reporters, players, and countless others he happened to encounter throughout the day. It only continued when they left the stadium, onto the hotel to quickly shower and change for a celebratory dinner. The restaurant was fancier than John normally would have agreed to, but if there was a night to treat himself, this was it. Besides, it was a nice excuse to dress up – Sherlock looked like a model, as usual, and based on the hungry looks he was sending John’s way, he figured he didn’t look too bad either.

It only took until their appetizers came for Sherlock to jump up and firmly shut the door to their private room. “I know they just want to wish you well, John, but we’ll be here for a week if we keep letting them interrupt.” As much as John appreciated the support, he knew Sherlock was right – they had to draw a line sometime. In addition to all the congratulations about the championship, John couldn’t believe how many people had told him he and Sherlock were brave for coming out with their relationship. How many young players had tweeted that they felt more comfortable being themselves now that they had John to look up to. How many of his colleagues, both players and coaches, had approached him to say that it was about damn time there was an out player on the men’s pro circuit. Martina Navratilova had even sent them flowers. He knew there would surely be those who turned on him because he was with Sherlock, but it was amazing to see the support there as well.

The meal was delicious, and the company even better. After multiple dinner courses, dessert, and a good amount of French wine, the group got back to their hotel late. John took Sherlock’s hand in his as he said goodnight to his mother, Greg, and Mike and his wife, and began to head up to their room. “It’s nice to finally be able to do that in public,” John chuckled, leaning in to press his lips to Sherlock’s throat as the elevator ascended. Sherlock hummed in response, the vibrations making John’s lips buzz.

John flopped down on the bed once they entered the room. “Was today even real?” he asked, mystified, as Sherlock crawled up to join him.

“It most certainly was. You have a trophy to prove it and everything,” he affirmed, leaning down to lightly kiss John’s jaw. “My champion.”

John sighed contently. “It sounds best when you say it. Much better than any announcer.”

Sherlock let out a low chuckle. “I know you’ve been hearing it all day, but you were incredible out there. That was some gorgeous tennis you played today.”

John stroked Sherlock’s hair as he moved his kisses to John’s shoulder – completely healed, stronger than ever. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped to look at John when he heard the emotion in his voice. He moved back up and, feeling John’s hands cradle his face, kissed him deeply. “My champion,” he breathed again, more tenderly this time. He positioned himself on top of John so that their hips were lined up. “I want to give you everything tonight,” he whispered against John’s skin.  “I want to taste you,” he continued, moving back down to suck a wet kiss to John’s neck. “I want to feel every inch of you against me,” he added, circling his hips to rub their budding erections together through their clothes. “I want to hear you cry out when you come inside me.”

“Oh Christ, _yes,_ Sherlock.” John shuddered with anticipation as Sherlock unbuttoned the remainder of his dress shirt, teasingly poking his fingers below the waistband of John’s pants as he untucked the shirt. Usually John would tell him to stop being a bloody tease and get on with it, but after the nonstop rush of the day – hell, of the last two weeks – Sherlock’s slow pace felt absolutely blissful. John let his head fall back against the pillows, but kept his eyes open so he could watch Sherlock as he removed his trousers. “Yours, too,” John demanded. “I want to see you.”

Sherlock sent him a dazzling smirk as he unbuttoned his shirt, then his trousers, letting them both fall to the floor. When they were both in their pants, Sherlock climbed back onto the bed and settled between John’s legs. He tugged John’s pants down easily, but didn’t touch him at first. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered reverently, leaning down. His hot breath gave John goose bumps on his thighs. “Perfect,” he murmured, getting closer. _Just a little closer._ “Mine,” Sherlock declared, voice rough with love and lust and pride and awe and _joy._

“All yours,” John gasped, as Sherlock’s lips wrapped around his already-hard cock. His hands made their way back down into Sherlock’s hair, fingers running through his fine curls as his tongue teased and licked in ways John thought he’d never get used to. “No one else,” he added breathlessly. His hips began to thrust gently, his cock pressing deeper into Sherlock’s mouth. The sight of it nearly put John over the edge.

“Stop,” John urged, forcing his hips to still. “I don’t want it to be over that fast.” He gripped Sherlock by the shoulders and pulled his body up on top of John’s once more. “First, let’s get rid of these,” he laughed, tugging down Sherlock’s pants. “Next,” he continued, flipping them over with ease, “I need to taste you.” With that, he shimmied down to where Sherlock had just been and abruptly took Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.

“Ah, fuck, J-John!” Sherlock stuttered, John’s eagerness taking him by surprise. John kept his head steady, his tongue taking long pulls on Sherlock’s prick as Sherlock writhed under him. “So brilliant,” he exhaled shakily, his knees folding up to bring his legs next to John’s head. John chuckled, the vibrations making Sherlock squirm. John moved down to circle his tongue around Sherlock’s balls, pausing to gently suck at each one for a moment.

“On your stomach,” John commanded. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but flipped over obediently. John leaned down to hover above Sherlock’s arse. “Let me know how this feels,” he said softly. And then his tongue was back to work, licking along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, pressing lightly against his hole.

“Oh! God, yes, _yes, fuc-”_ Sherlock’s babbling quickly turned to incoherent, wanton cries as John pressed further, tongue loosing the ring of muscle just inside him. He kept going until Sherlock was positively shaking under him.

“I want you now, Sherlock,” John said, voice thick with desire. “All of you.”

He got up off the bed to grab the lube from the bedside table. He quickly slicked himself up and offered the tube to Sherlock.

“I’m ready,” he said, pushing it aside. “I feel so open after that.”

John blushed a little at that. He grabbed a pillow from behind Sherlock and placed it under his hips. “I’ll go slow,” he promised, placing a kiss on the center of his chest. John moved closer to kneel in between Sherlock’s open legs, lined his penis up against Sherlock’s hole, and slowly began to press inside.

It was a glorious sight. Sherlock’s breathing was loud and ragged, his hands fisting the sheets; he was hiding nothing, all laid out for John to admire. It made John’s breath catch in his throat. “You’re amazing,” he whispered as he started to move. “Fantastic.” He placed his hands on each side of Sherlock’s body as he gave another unhurried thrust. “You’re everything.”

Their rhythm started out slower than usual, but after all the buildup, they soon began to move faster. Sherlock was soon crying out with pleasure; John leaned forward to kiss him sloppily as Sherlock continued to moan into his mouth. Sherlock gave a particularly loud cry then – John kept himself there, hitting the same spot inside Sherlock, making him quiver.

“Right there, John! That’s – _oh!_ – incredible – more - _John!”_

“That’s right, love,” John replied, his thrusts picking up speed. “I’ve got you.” John moved his hand between them to wrap around Sherlock’s cock. “My Sherlock.”

John began to stroke him forcefully, the movements of his hand corresponding with those of his hips. He knew Sherlock was close; John’s thighs started to shake as he felt his own orgasm approaching.

Then Sherlock was panting his name, over and over, and his come was leaking out between them - and John was done for. He came just moments after Sherlock, seeing stars as he finished inside him.

When he came back to his senses, he found Sherlock staring at him, his favourite lopsided grin on his face. “You are mesmerizing, John Watson,” he said, reaching to run his fingers through John’s hair.

John laughed, full of unadulterated joy. “This has definitely been one of the best days of my life,” he declared, moving to lie next to Sherlock on the bed.

“You’ve earned it,” Sherlock murmured. “You deserve everything good, John.”

John blushed, as he always did when Sherlock got sentimental. “Well, as long as I’ve got you at the end of the day, I’ll be happy,” he replied, nuzzling closer. “The title is a nice bonus, though.”

“And the trophy,” Sherlock reminded him.

“And the trophy,” John confirmed, chuckling. “We’ll find a nice spot to put it when we get home.”

“Mhmm. Although we’ll probably need a larger display for when you win more,” Sherlock amended.

John raised his eyebrows, amused. “Oh, am I going to win more?” he asked, flipping over onto his stomach to peer into Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock snorted, as though it was a preposterous question. “Of course you are. You’re John Watson, after all. You’ve already won two of the four Grand Slams – how about we complete your collection?” he offered casually.

John laughed. It would have sounded ridiculous coming from anyone else; hell, it still did, even from Sherlock. But John laughed because he knew Sherlock was serious - _and if anyone could legitimately offer you a Grand Slam title, it would be him,_ he thought. John was struck once again by just how lucky he was to have this incredible man in his life. “As long as you’re by my side,” he grinned, unable to keep the emotion inside any longer.

“Well then, it’s settled!” Sherlock announced, wrapping his arms around John tightly and swiftly kissing him on the cheek. “We’ve got Wimbledon to get ready for!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martina Navratilova is renowned as one of the greatest tennis players of all time - if not the greatest, period. She is a lesbian and is a vocal campaigner for gay rights, among other things.  
> Various match outcomes, as well as press questions and comments, were inspired by coverage of this year’s French Open. John's victory speech was partially inspired by Martin's 2011 BAFTA acceptance speech. 
> 
> A massive thank you to all who have been reading! I hope you've enjoyed the journey - it's been SO much fun to write.  
> Again, feel free to comment if you feel so compelled! You can also find me on tumblr at 221baenedict.


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